Skip to main content

Full text of "Calliope"

See other formats


Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 



http://archive.org/details/calliope8993arms 



Catfiove 




Catfiope 



"Volume Si?C 
Spring 1989 



"Editor: Stacy Ann Hooks 

Associate "Editor: Anne Schepper duller 

Staff: Qinger Carver 

Lisa Qunders on- Catron 

Michael 'West 



faculty Advisor: "Dr. "Richard C. Raymond 



Armstrong State CoCCege 
!A Unit of the University System of Qeorgia 



The Offering 

cover photo By Chris J(Cug 



'When you are old and gray and futt of sleep, 
And nodding by the fire., takg down this Sool^ 
And slowly read, and dream of the soft (oofc^ 
Jour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep 

Yeats, ""When you Are Old" 



Table of Contents 
I. 

Genesis 3 

Kathy Cohen 

Hero at Large 4 

Beckie Jackson 

like daniel 5 

a. o. harris 

sad circle above 5 

a. o. harris 

Watching them Grow Yellow 6 

Adam Tenenbaum 

My Thoughts 8 

Kathy Cohen 

Wind, Marriage, and Mankind: Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind " as 

Exemplary of Romantic Poetry 9 

Stacy Hooks 

Shadows 11 

Maureen Lucey 

Resolution 12 

Ron Speir 



II. 



Epoch 14 

Michele Hepner 

A Part 15 

Nancy Gallaher 

Real Intelligence in the Good Characters of Dickens Hard Times 17 

Anne Muller 



The Best Years of My Life 19 

Carol Ann Causey 

Then and Now, or Now and Then 20 

Steven Ealy 

Metamorphosis 21 

Marcy McClendon 



III. 



Life List 26 

Donald L. Robinson 

A Dream on the First Day the Sun Shone 28 

the joys left on one window sill 28 

a.o. harris 

Torch of Freedom 29 

Jason El-Habre 

Standing on the Beach 31 

Lisa Gunderson-Catron 

Gabriella 32 

Catherine Yagecic 

Autumn 33 

Kathy Cohen 

Ducks on a Pond 34 

Adam Tenenbaum 

IV. 



a poem, this is not 36 

a. o. harris 

A Long Night Out 37 

Adam Tenenbaum 

Aylmer and Young Goodman Brown: Two of a Kind 38 

Cindy Halas 



Commentary 41 

Kathy Cohen 

Just Can't Win 42 

William Hansford 

Une Priere de Noel/A Christmas Prayer 43 

Roger Smith 

Come and Go 45 

Connie Flythe Burnsmier 

Empty Mind 45 

Ron Speir 

Sex Talk with Dr. Sue 46 

Stanley Cross 

Modern Poet 48 

Ron Speir 

Thoroughfare 48 

Carol Ann Causey 

Programming Life 49 

Sigmund Hudson 



Photographs and Sketches 



Section I photograph 1 

Stacy Hooks 

Nexus 3 

Ron Speir 

Eden 7 

Ron Speir 

Death of an Age 11 

Ron Speir 

Nature's Demolition 12 

Ron Speir 

Section II photograph 13 

Ron Speir 



I he Sentinel 14 

Ron Speir 

Tones of Despair 16 

Heather Birkheimer 

Lapse in Reality 23 

Ron Speir 

Section III photograph 25 

Chris Klug 

Iron Outlook 30 

Heather Birkheimer 

Antithesis 31 

Stacy Hooks 

Geechee Christmas 33 

Ron Speir 

Section IV photograph 35 

S. Hooks 

Strangulation by Beauty 40 

Chris Robinson 

Anticipating Revenuers 41 

Walter Podmore 

Divergence of the Twain 47 

Ron Speir 

Passages 50 

Heather Birkheimer 



Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting 

Wordsworth, "Intimations of Immortality" 




The noise drones 

one long single note 

of never ending variety 

higher 

faster 

louder 

wilder 

ageless newborn roaring 



nexus rax spcir 



Calliope 



Hero at Large 

Beckle Jackson 



He Is everywhere. Intruding, pushing his 
way into every thought. I beg for quiet, solitude. 
I must finish my paper. "I'll be quiet," he prom- 
ises, but I know not to believe him. He's made 
this promise before. It's not that he doesn't mean 
It. it's simply that he can't. He is five years old. 

He is my little hero asking, "Lady, are there 
any bad guys in your house? I'll take care of 
them." And, "Do you have a husband? I will 
marry you." 

How can I love him so much and yet get so 
exasperated I want to scream? When I took on 
this job five years ago. it was the answer to a 
prayer. There's been more happiness than can 
be measured, yet my blood pressure has risen 
ten points. 

He is my little monster, barging into the 
bathroom demanding lunch, hiding while I call 
his name until I'm near panic. Yet he has sugar 
pockets on his cheeks, so sweet to kiss. Tickle 
him and he knots with laughter. Enough of this. 
I have work to do. 

I retreat to the privacy of the guest room 
upstairs only to be followed. Climbing up beside 
me on the bed. he says, "I guess I'm sleepy," and 
proceeds to push me, asking for more room. Can 
he have my pen and pad to draw a picture of the 
sunshine and his best friend? Can I work on the 
floor and give him the whole bed? He wants to 
help me write. He cries, saying over and over, 
"Momma, I want to help." He slides headlong off 
the bed calling, "Help, help me Momma." He 
cries on the floor because I slid him down instead 
of pulling him back. I feel like a heel and worry 
about emotional scars. 

Giving up. he goes in search of his candy 
cane pencil. My mind wanders back to our morn- 
ings. He wakes me at daybreak to tell me the sun 
is shining and the birds are singing. Sleepily, I 
convince him to climb into my bed and cuddle for 
a while. I'm hoping for a few extra minutes of 
sleep and he's turning into Bobby Mole, tunnel- 
ing under the covers and tickling my toes. 

I'm brought back to the present by the 
sound of his chirping as he climbs the stairs. I 
give him paper and he tells me not to look 



because he's writing me a secret. It will be a book 
without words. I am to make up my own story. 
Despite his secret, he keeps me posted every five 
seconds on what he's doing. He heads back 
downstairs and my mind starts to wander again. 

He likes to wear cowboy boots, jeans, and 
no shirt. He once wrestled himself- -much to my 
delight—across the living room floor, shirtless, in 
a pair of blue shorts and his boots. 

He's back again with sharpened pencil in 
hand. "Don't look at my paper, look at your own, 
O.K.?" How I wish I could. 

He barks and bounces, cock-a-doodle- 
doos like a rooster while I try to concentrate. He 
starts asking questions, tough ones. "Can you 
see through God?" I answer as best I can. then 
turn back to my writing. He interrupts me to look 
at his picture. He's done it very well except for 
nickle-sized ears on a dime-sized body. He 
interrupts again for a counting lesson. 

Would I trade him for a more demure child? 
One willing to sit and watch the world? Not a 
chance. 

Now he sits behind the rocker quietly filling 
a small wagon with his treasures: a bow and 
arrow. Raggedy Ann and Andy, and a comb. His 
prizes are as eclectic as he. 

Out of nowhere. I am attacked by an In- 
dian. A rubber knife follows my pen across the 
page, pressing me to complete my work and join 
in the play. The knife moves to my dictionary, 
slicing it into pages. 

I must go. My hero has waited long enough. 



Calliope 



5 



like daniel 

a.o. harris 



like 

Mischievous youths 

we squandered our days 

tackling the ideas 

the other discovered 

like 

Baseball cards 

we traded special pieces 

of our/ Selves 

for the growth of the other 

like 

Old sneakers 

withstanding the 

sunny and rainy days 

like champs 

like 

Friend/ ships 

are supposed to be/ 



like that. 



sad circle above 

a. o. harris 



the small procession 
of wandering birds 
glance below their wings 
and effortlessly hover 

in a 
mournful pattern 
periodically sending 
shrill cries 
to one another 

as if 
to wonder why 
the spirit below 
hesitates to fellowship 
with the merry band. 

seeing the saddened fowl 
slowly losing their aerial grace 
I lift my pen 

and shyly join in their juvenile play. 



Calliope 



Watching Them Grow Yellow 

Adam Tenenbaum 



Life is very long for a ten year old, time is a 
good friend. So it was for Tom. who sat endlessly at 
his desk listening to his teacher's hum. That's all 
her lectures were to him. background music for 
daydreams. Some days he was the captain of a 
ship, a one-man sixty foot sailboat. Swim all day. 
play with the fish, and never worry about rain. 
Other days it was horses. Watch them run. their 
speed, their grace. And all too willing to give you a 
ride. You can go anywhere on a horse, over 
mountains and through streams and even to movies 
and shopping. 

Tom wiggled in his seat. It was a warm and 
sunny day. The warmth made the classroom smell 
like old milk. It was mid-afternoon, the sleepiest 
part of the day. Tom had the eraser end of a pencil 
in his mouth and was absentmindedly chewing on 
it. He closed his eyes and went into a hot-air 
balloon. Up in the sky he went, high above the 
world. He stopped on a cloud and got out for a walk. 
He bounced on the cloud as if it were a giant 
trampoline. When he was hungry he simply grabbed 
a handful of cotton candy cloud. 

Tom was chewing harder on his pencil now. 
as a steady stream of saliva ran down his chin. The 
music flowed as the teacher talked about history 
then math then geography, each one a different 
tune. 

Meanwhile. Tom was kite flying on a cloud. 
The wind was strong and was pulling Tom along as 
fast as he could run. Every few steps Tom would 
trip and bounce off the cloud somersault fashion. 
But a second later he'd be back upright again. No 
shoes up in the clouds, feel the mist between your 
toes. 

A puddle of spit ran down the desk and onto 
Tom's hand on his lap. The wetness brought Tom's 
attention back to the classroom. The rest of the 
class was already filing out the door. Tom packed 
up his books and headed home. 

It was about a half-mile to Tom's house, but 
on a nice day like today the walk could take almost 
an hour. There is so much to see on a spring 
afternoon. So much to hear and smell. The beauty 
of pale blue robins' eggs. The smell of freshly cut 
grass. 

When he reached home his mother was sit- 
ting on the porch smoking. "Hi, Tom. how was 
school? I've been waiting for you. Wanna coke? 
We've got to get you shoes and I'd like to leave now 



so we can beat the traffic. After shopping we're 
supposed to meet Dad at Hurley's for dinner. You 
like Hurley's, don't you dear?" 

Because it was still pretty early Hurley's wasn't 
very crowded. Tom's father was a little ragged from 
a hard day. "That Jones deal has really turned into 
a regular pain. I've been running around all day. 
Those people don't know what they want, they don't 
communicate with each other. I really wish we 
weren't handling them at all." 

Tom," his mother said, "is something wrong 
with your steak?" 

"Eat up." his father said, "we can't wait forever 
for you . I have a meeting in less than an hour. " Tom 
just kept playing with his potatoes. He was adding 
more and more butter, watching them grow yellow. 

Later that night, after they got home. Tom had 
hours to spend playing with his toys. 



"School can wait. "Tom thought as he watched 
one of his more favorite Yogi The Bear cartoons. 
School didn't wait though, it went right on without 
him. and so Tom was late. 

Tom looked at the tiles on the floor as he 
walked down the long hall towards his classroom. 
There were about five times as many light brown 
tiles as dark brown ones and Tom was trying his 
best tojump from dark tile to dark tile. This was not 
a new routine for Tom. and he was quite good at it. 
Tom entered the classroom and disrupted the class 
as little as possible. 

TodayTomwasaking. He had money, jewels, 
and servants. And cats, something Tom's mother 
wouldn't let him have even though Joey Simon had 
a cat named Charlie. As king Tom could do what- 
ever he wanted, sleep, watch cartoons, eat dessert 
first, and never grow up. Tom the boy king. 

The day went very quickly and before he knew 
it Tom, along with his parents, was on his way to his 
grandparents' house. "Do we have to stay long?" 
Tom's mother asked. 

"No," his father said, "We'll just eat and leave. 
Two hours, tops." 

Toms' grandparents' house always smelled 
funny, like a combination of chicken soup and 
shellac. "Oh look how big you're getting. Tom," his 
grandmother fussed. "You must be twice the size 
you were last week. Go tell your grandfather you're 
here. I think he's watching TV. in the den." 



Cattiope 



"Hi Grampa." 

"Oh, when d'ya get here?" 

"We just came in," Tom said. "Guess what, I 
lost another tooth. See?" 

"Did the tooth fairy leave you anything?" 

"Only a quarter." 

"Well, we'll see what we can do about that. 
Why don't you go ask your grandma for a deck of 
cards and I'll show you a trick." 

Tom ran into the kitchen yelling, "Grandma, 
Grandma, Grandpa wants a deck of cards." 

"Is he doing those stupid card tricks again? 
Here you go Tom, but don't let him do more than 
two tricks." 

Tom's grandfather's hands were old and ar- 
thritic. They would not clinch completely, nor 
would they fully straighten. Shuffling the cards 
was a task of great effort. But it was not his hands 
that bothered Tom's grandfather the most, it was 



his mind. The intricacies of the card tricks evaded 
him. Not one trick could he remember fully. He 
thought he remembered each trick, but painfully 
realized at the end of each that he had erred 
somewhere along the way. The fact that he had no 
idea where he had erred served only as a source of 
greater irritation. 

"Boy." Tom's grandfather said to him, "did I 
ever tell you about the time I beat fifty men in a foot 
race at the county fair? It was 1938, no, no, 1939. 
I weighed 143 pounds back then. My brother 
wouldn't enter the race, he knew how quick I was. 
Your grandmother was sitting . . ." 

"Come on," Tom's father interrupted, "Dinner's 
ready." 

Tom was glad that it was dinner time, he'd 
heard his grandfather's story many times before. 
Besides, Grandma always makes plenty of mashed 
potatoes to play with. 




■fa* 



eden ron speir 



Catfiope 



My Thoughts 

Kathy Cohen 

Sometimes my thoughts 

Are like a bottle of thick rich liquid 

Where, when it is over turned. 

A large bubble forms at the bottom 

And rises: 

ever- 
so- 
slowly- 
To the top 

Where it bursts quietly, slowly 
Without drawing attention 
Or praise. 

Yet that is the most beautiful thought 
The clearest, the best 
But it comes so very seldom 



At other times my thoughts 
Are like a glass of champagne 
Starting small and quickly rising 
To burst 

With sharptiny bangs 
These thoughts draw the most attention 
And make people shake their heads at me. 
In every thousand maybe ten will be good. 
These are my thoughts of action. 



Sometimes, 

Not very often, 

They will be both: 

A carefully planned out deep emotion 

Rising to be joined at the top of my brain 

By a quickly moving bubble of action. 

These are my thoughts of wisdom- 

My thoughts of freedom- 

My thoughts of others- 

My thoughts of love. 



Cattiope 



Wind, Marriage, and Mankind: 
Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" as Exemplary of Romantic Poetry 

Stacy Hooks 



Tis but a worthless world to win or lose. 

Byron 



Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is not merely 
a tribute to the wind, but a poet's single-minded 
struggle to connect with the universe. To connect, 
to find his place. Shelley turns to that element in 
nature to which all others — from "leaves dead" to 
"sea blooms and oozy woods" far beneath the 
ocean — must submit. "Chained and bow'd" by the 
heavyweight of hours" adulthood inevitably brings, 
Shelley cannot freely follow the wind as in his 
boyhood. He realizes that the wind cannot physi- 
cally release him from the confines of time, but this 
is not his goal. Instead, he asks the wind for 
intellectual release, first to "drive [his) dead thoughts 
over the universe ... to quicken a new [intellectual] 
birth, and then, for the wind to be, through him, 
"the trumpet of a prophecy" to all of mankind. This 
prophecy is a summons for man to turn from the 
finite — the temporal and the physical — to the infi- 
nite — the intellect and nature. This turning away, 
this intellectual release, is man's apocalypse. 

Although "Ode to the West Wind" reflects one 
poet's quest for apocalypse, it is not a novel poem; 
in message and method, namely that of specific 
image patterns, it exemplifies Romantic poetry. 
Like other Romantics, Shelley is acutely conscious 
of the moral turbulence plaguing nineteenth-cen- 
tury Europe, and that the corrupted ideals of the 
French and Industrial Revolutions are largely re- 
sponsible. Realizing that established law and reli- 
gion are only breeding grounds for corruption, the 
Romantics view man's apocalypse as a catharsis of 
sorts which purges the mind of secular restraints. 
Because they so firmly believe this, the predomi- 
nant image patterns- wind and marriage --stem not 
from the secular and finite but from the spiritual 
and infinite— nature and intellect. It is by empha- 
sizing the infinite that the Romantics hope to guide 
mankind to and through apocalypse. 

Because it is "tameless, swift . . . proud [and] 
uncontrollable" the Romantics rely on the wind's 
"unseen presence" as a foil to the impotence and 
fragility of the secular world. To Shelley, the wind 
serves as a reminder that there exists a universal 
force greater than and ungovemed by the finite 
world of time or tyrants. From the wind's presence, 
the "leaves dead . . . the pestilence-stricken multi- 



tudes [of the secular world] . . . are driven." The 
secular world's recognition, however subconscious, 
of the wind's supremacy appears not only in 
Shelley — multitudes "are driven, like ghosts from 
an enchanter fleeing" — but also in Blake's "Urizen" 
when, after separating from Desire and Imagina- 
tion, Reason "hides carefully from the wind." 

Often referred to as the sky -god, the wind shows 
his wrath toward mankind's fallen, corrupt state. 
In "Ode to the West Wind," the wind, originating in 
that direction long associated with death — the 
West — brings a storm to drive these multitudes 
from his presence. The "black winds of perturba- 
tion" and the "whirlwinds of sulphurous smoke" in 
"Urizen" arise in violent protest of Reason's sepa- 
ration from his counterparts. Wordsworth, in "The 
World is Too Much With Us," feels that Europe is so 
corrupt, so "out of tune," that it is unmoved by the 
"winds . . . howling at all hours" in protest. 

It is not, however, through the wind's display of 
power or protest, but through its absence or stag- 
nation that the Romantics best illustrate man's 
temporal preoccupation and need for spiritual 
apocalypse. In "Ode to the West Wind," the "seeds 
... lie cold and low . . . like . . . corpses within graves" 
while the wind is absent. Shelley, too, before his 
apocalypse, is "chained and bowed" to that secular 
realm, unable to touch or to be touched by the 
wind. After the Mariner falls, shoots the Albatross 
in "down dropt the breeze . . . there was neither nor 
motion [and] the very deep did rot" in The Rime of 
the Ancient M ariner, Coleridge also stills the wind 
on the eve of the young maiden's corruption in 
"Christabel"; that night, "there is not wind enough 
to twirl the one red leaf." So complete is man's de- 
bauchery in Byron's "Darkness" that its stench 
poisons the atmosphere and the winds "wither in 
the stagnant air." 

That the wind withers or remains stagnant is a 
rarity in Romantic poetry; this stagnation more 
commonly precedes a storm, a catharsis for man. 
After the autumn storm and winter in "Ode to the 
West Wind," the "Spring . . . blows/ her clarion o'er 
the earth . . . [filling] with living hues and odors 
plain and hill." Because such a rebirth follows 
death, Shelley has hope; like "the forest . . . [his] 






Calliope 



leaves are falling." but In losing his "dead thoughts." 
he gains "a new birth." Though the Mariner's 
redemption is, ultimately, only partial, the "roaring 
wind" does signal hisjoumey back to life. Likewise, 
in "Resolution and Independence," the "roaring in 
the wind all night," the accompanying storm, and 
"the sun . . . calm and bright." parallel Wordsworth's 
internal storm and eventual resolution. 

Not only is the wind the "destroyer . . . pre- 
server," and restorer, it is often the source of life to 
the Romantics. While "Ode to the West Wind" 
primarily concerns the death/rebirth, corruption/ 
catharsis cycles of nature and humanity, Shelley 
does refer to the wind as the "breath of Autumn's 
being" and the "Wild Spirit, which art moving 
everywhere." In "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," it 
is the wind that animates the daffodils; Wordsworth 
remembers them "fluttering and dancing in the 
breeze." He loves the "living air" in "Lines Com- 
posed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey." and ad- 
monishes his sister, Dorothy, to "let the misty 
mountain-winds be free/to blow against thee 
[because] in after years . . . these wild ecstasies," 
memories, will be a source of pleasure and comfort . 
For Coleridge, the wind breathes life into man. 
otherwise a mere "lump of clay"; this wind is 
"plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze/ at once 
the soul of each and God of all" — man is simply an 
Eolian harp. Byron, by contrast, reflects the dimin- 
ishment of life in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Feeling 
less animated by, connected to the wind, Childe 
Harold fears that because of his increasing years, 
"perchance [his] heart and harp have lost a string." 
Just as the wind is, ideally, connected to uni- 
fied with man, the images of wind and marriage 
often appear connected in Shelley and Coleridge. 
Shelley believes that his apocalypse depends on 
that union, that marriage between himself and the 
wind. In desperation, he prays to the wind for that 
marriage" "Make me thy lyre ... be thou. Spirit 
fierce/ my spirit! Be thou me ... be through my lips 
. . . the trumpet of a prophecy." Similarly, as the 
wind plays over the strings of the Eolian harp. 
Coleridge surmises that "all of organic nature [man 
included! • • be but organic harps . . . that tremble 
Into thought as o'er them sweeps . . . one intellec- 
tual breeze." This marriage complete. Coleridge's 
imagination "transverses (his) brain/ as wild and 
various as the random gales/that swell and flutter 
on this lute." 

This marriage imagery is not, however, always 
connected only with the wind; often Romantics 
seek a marriage of the mind and all of nature. The 
scope of "Ode to the West Wind" limits this mar- 
riage to the intellect and wind, but the marriage 



imagery is. nonetheless, present. Wordsworth 
says, in Tintern Abbey." that man and nature "half 
create." and in the "Prospectus." he equates mar- 
riage of mind and nature with "Paradise, and 
groves/Elysian. [and] Fortunate Fields: 

For the discerning intellect of Man, 
When wedded to this goodly universe. 
In love and holy passion, shall find these 
A simple produce of the common day. 
Coleridge's "Fears in Solitude" represents this 
marriage as "society . . . [which gives! a livelier 
impulse and dance of thought" to the mind. "This 
Lime Tree Bower My Prison" presents nature as the 
faithful spouse who "n'er desert the wise and pure." 
Byron wants only "to mingle with the universe, and 
feel/ what [he] can n'er express." 

Like Byron, Shelley strives to. but realizes that 
the poet can never "render into words and images" 
that vision all Romantics find themselves both 
blessed and burdened with. If not entirely success- 
ful, they are, through the use of "infinite" imagery, 
most effective. 

Their versions of man's path to redemption all 
involve rebellion against some element in society, 
whether it be corrupted political or cultural revo- 
lutions, organized religion, social hypocrisy, or 
sexual repression or discrimination. It is that 
common ground, however small, of vision — vision 
to see man's urgent need for apocalypse — that 
unites Romantic poets. 

What makes Shelley the consummate Roman- 
tic and "Ode to the West Wind" the model of 
Romantic poetry is this poet's comtempt for all es- 
tablished customs. Arguably the first flower child, 
Shelley advocates the "emancipation of women, 
love tender and true, and that man be vegetarian, 
healthy, and gentle." Though he has "boundless 
confidence in the reasonableness of mankind." 
Shelley does not escape the disillusionment with a 
fallen, finite, and essentially worthless world to 
which all Romantics are prone. Caught in this 
disillusionment, and ironically, in a storm, Shelley 
drowned at age thrity. 

But Shelley, like nature, is resilient, and had he 
lived, or if he does still live, his "ashes and sparks 
. . . words among mankind." then "if Winter comes 
[for him), can Spring be far behind?" No. 



Catfiope 



11 



Shadows 

Maureen Lucey 



She sits at her desk licking stamps 

To put on still more envelopes 

In the office that is hers 

Dreary and mundane 

But for the painting on the far wall: 

Of a cabin set deep within the woods 

Overlooking a calm shimmering lake. 

With shadows sprinkled 

Carelessly across the canvas 

From the day's last light. 

Thoughts of her brown A-frame cottage 

At the lake come to mind. 

Longing to be there.... 

Her reverie is broken by the noise. 

Then sight of the mail cart being pushed 

Down the hall by Hal 

His brown hair hanging down 

Over his eyes, and 

Funny little grin 

Poking up through his heavy moustache. 

They exchange mail 

And the hand of a close friend 

Brushes softly against hers. 

Leaving an odd sensation 

That somehow comforts her. 

The day is almost at an end 

It seems to say to her, as the dusk 

Creeps forward outside of her window. 




death of an age ron speir 



Calliope 



Resolution 

Ron Speir. Jr. 



Not a day slips by 
Without a thought of her. 
As the tides change 
I call out her name. 
But only In my mind. 



A million times I've spoken. 
Confessing my love with words. 
All in my mind, only in my mind. 
But can she feel my naked heart. 
Through the tangled facade? 
I study the movies diligently-- 
How does he know when 
To bear himself to her? 




nature's demolition ran speir 



I wake up to darkness. 
And only the faded memory. 
Of her musing face 
Can enlighten the blackness. 
Which envelops me. 



I resolve to face her: 
My hands will caress her heart. 
So my arms can embrace her soul. 
And I will set it all aside-- 
My shy. extroverted shell 
with quivering lips- 
Confessing to the world 
The love I behold. 
But when will I know when . . . ? 



Time held me green and dying 
Though I sang in my chains like the sea 

Thomas, "Fern Hill" 




Epoch 

Mlchele Hepner 



CaCfivpe 



And it was conceived. The fruit grew ripe and 
dropped to the ground. Juices seeped into the 
earth, making it fertile for the seed. The seed 
dropped into the land, comforted by sweet nourish- 
ment it found there. It felt the earthly pleasures the 
land had to offer, and with its roots delved deeper, 
grasping hold. The sun found the seed basking in 
its warmth and pulled it forward, upward, turning 
it green with life and lush with gratitude. 

Soon the rain came, cooling the young plant's 
heated embrace with the sun. Placing the dew on 
each limb with precision, the cold water seeped 
into the plant, changing, pushing, spreading, 
branching it. 

With each dew drop came a new dependent — 
some took its tender flesh and bore in, eating it. 
Some tore the lush green leaves from its palate and 
built their homes in its limbs. Each sang a song of 
loving gratitude though the tree could not hear it. 

The rain turned to ice and the ice to snow; the 
sun disappeared behind a colorless cloud. The 
youth had been sapped from the tree, leaving only 
maturity and experience to be gained from survival. 
Naked of its life and forced by the season to become 
dormant, it grew silent and watchful, digging 
deeper into the land in search of nourishment. 

The sun reappeared and the tree once again 
basked wantonly in its heat. Displaying its new 
maturity, it began to gather pollen from the tem- 
pest-tossed winds surrounding it. 

And it conceived. 



The Still Life 

Kathy Cohen 



Two bodies rest 

a pose 

caught 

still as a sculpture 

for a brief moment 

dark shadows fill crevices 

and starlight glistens 

off the wet curves. 

Part 

and form again 

new darkness and light 

in neverending kaleidoscope 

of contrast. 




the sentinel ron speir 



Cattiope 



15 



A Part 

Nancy Gallaher 



An imperceptible tear glistened at the inner 
corner of her left eye. Deenie, seated before the 
mirror, considered her daughter in its fluid trans- 
lucency; but in her own self-conscious busyness, 
Nina, intuitively aware of her mother's intent and 
unwilling to be absorbed in the glare of that encom- 
passing eye, shifted in her activities. Undaunted, 
Deenie refaced her own image and turned inward. 
Her eyes were a cool pale blue, seemingly detached 
but determined. Changeless themselves over the 
years, they had quietly and unobtrusively brooded 
over the changeless inconsistencies of life. It must 
be a cycle, she thought, seeming to evolve only be- 
cause individual experience rendered new insights. 
Nevertheless, it had long been one of her most 
tenaciously held beliefs that the nature of one's 
death was consistent with the nature of one's life, 
that birth and death were but the visible bounda- 
ries, and that there was a pattern and purpose to 
each individual cycle, no matter the inconsisten- 
cies. She listened to her eyes and in their ageless- 
ness they had told her it was true. Now she herself 
would wait only a short while. 

Her illness had not yet distorted her vision 
nor dimmed her eyes. What she saw there within 
her eyes was herself. She was the child who first 
realized that the reflection in the mirror was her 
own; she was the young woman who knew herself 
and imagined what others might see; she was the 
wife and mother who saw herself in her middle 
years reflected as a component of a family unit, 
connected to them by their needs and her own 
willing service. She was herself a part of life but 
apart through it all. In appearance changed, she, 
there within herself seen through her eyes and 
within her eyes, nevertheless, was herself. She 
might believe herself a puzzlement, but in the 
revelation of all eventual insights, a coherent unit, 
a piece in the purpose and pattern of life itself. She 
was adamant in this belief. 

Orphaned at an early age, she had accepted her 
self-reliant persistence; setting her vision, she 
had methodically held the long view regardless. 
Her security was in herself and her willingness to 
persevere structured that security. 

Now looking within herself, she had decided to 
know her place, that place of which her eyes had 
spoken. When she arose, her fall was sure and 
painful. 



Consciousness was primitively sensual - an 
onslaught of physical sensations. Within uncon- 
sciousness, the sensations were more intensely 
real. 

Behind Deenie's eyes the little girl reached up 
to touch the soft black hair falling down to cover her 
own. She made a pretend wig of it. trailing it beside 
her face as though it were her own. For the workday 
chores that thick black hair was always bound; its 
coarse but lustrous texture, hidden. But here on 
the front stoop, it was only the crown of her mother's 
beauty. 

"You're so beautiful. Mama." 

"All little girls think their mamas are 
pretty." 

Deenie looked so deeply within her mother's 
eyes she felt herself to be at one with her again, 
inside and out, a part of someone else but not truly 
apart. Apart. She marveled at the thought of it. To 
be alone and yet not so. To be a part of the progres- 
sion of time. Deenie shut her eyes; and with her 
fingertip, she stroked her mother's hair. Undis- 
tracted by her vision, she created in all her other 
senses a photograph which she would take with her 
always. Contented in her unaccustomed singular 
state, for she had many brothers and sisters and 
such times as these were seldom to be savored, she 
sighed deeply and relaxed, allowing the warm, earthy 
scent of her mother to encircle them. The arms 
tightened about her gently, pressing her into the 
sweetly soft but firm flesh. Very quietly and for her 
ears alone, a low pitched, rhythmical hum set up. 
With fascination, she flattened her ear closer 
against her mother's bosom and listened to the 
blend of her mother's heartbeat overlaid with lov- 
ing music. 

She needed nothing more; this moment caughtt 
in time had served her well. Often she turned here. 
It comforted her at those times just as it did now. 
The space within was so overwhelming she seemed 
unaware. She listened within and curled her chin 
down onto her chest. The rhythmic hum, the famil- 
iar tune, vied with the sound of a heartbeat, slower 
and slower, softer and softer until, having drawn 
her body knee to chest, the heartbeat stopped and all 
that remained was the sound of a mother's song. 

Her eyes were watching her and propelling 
her into the unknown. Yet a strange familiarity 
hovered at the fringes. A translucency that won- 






Cattiope 



dered at her from within. She had been aware of 
this duality for some while but had not defined it 
until the eyes themselves had told her. at first in 
vague puzzling glimpses and intuitions but then 
with blatant stares until she felt herself at once 
exposed and overwhelmed by them and by that one 
of whom they spoke. They watched and waited. 

Nina turned sharply the corner of Ninth and 
Way. The glass door yielded before her but her eyes 
did not. She was as before observed and unwilling. 
She sought the sanctuary of her reflective inner 
office. She fled into the busyness of her space. 
They only waited, willing to catch her unawares as 
she passed windows and mirrors, willing to remind 



her of the steady heartbeat of time, willing to wait 
for her until submissive; she accepted their domi- 
nance. There she wondered at this other self. 
Apart, alone, she was and yet not so. Apart she was 
and yet a part. 

The heartbeat began at first slowly and softly; 
then more self-assuredly until at last it was her 
own. She struggled no longer against her ambiva- 
lent nature. Listening with her ear pressed against 
the bosom of time to the growing awareness of her 
total self. Nina's eye twinkled and in its translu- 
cency, an imperceptible tear voiced its silent song 
of life. 




tones of despair heather birkheimer 



Cattiope 



17 



Real Intelligence in the Good Characters of Dicken's Hard Times 

Anne Muller 



Dickens is attacked by many critics for many 
things, but the charge most frequently brought 
against him is poor handling of his "good" charac- 
ters. David M. Hirsch insists that because Louisa 
Gradgrind in Hard Times is interested in art's 
ability to amuse rather than its "beauty or passion 
or power," she is, therefore, "brainless." He widens 
the scope of his attack and says "[S)o feeble-minded 
do the 'good' characters become at times that it is 
ultimately impossible to take them at al 1 seriously" 
(Hirsch, 371). 

Mr. Hirsch is explicit about Louisa's feeble- 
mindedness. He is not in the case of Stephen Black- 
pool or Rachael, so I will have to provide examples 
for their brainlessness and then dismantle my own 
claims to make my point. Fortunately, my work 
won't be as widely read as Descartes', but neverthe- 
less I am aware of the dangers inherent in this 
technique. Mr. Hirsch, however, was not sensitive 
enough to another rule of logic which is also the first 
rule of writing: substance over style. Certainly, his 
prose gallops off the page and is as memorable as 
the smell of a barn in summer, but by choosing 
adjectives for their impact rather than their aptness 
he has left the bam door open. Yes, there are 
problems with the good characters in Hard Times , 
but feeble-mindedness is not one of them. A 
cursory examination of their actions makes the 
refutation obvious. While Dickens may not have 
been at his best in HardTimes , there is much about 
Louisa, Stephen, and Rachael that is fascinating 
and admirable. 

But Mr. Hirsch finds Louisa "hollow," and 
explains himself by using the scene in which Louisa 
is comforted by Sissy after fleeing from Harthouse: 
This should be a moving scene, for 
it suggests the power of Christian. . . love 
to overcome the ruin wrought by sterile 
materialism . . . [T]he scene ... is actually 
ludicrous . . . Christian and human love 
is triumphant, all right. But over what? 
Louisa has yet to do any evil. Worse, she 
has yet to suffer . . . The scene is a failure 
because the suffering is hollow. And the 
suffering is hollow because the charac- 
ters are (Hirsch, 371). 
Mr. Hirsch's argument for the brainlessness of 
Louisa is perhaps best approached by his explana- 
tion of her hollowness. He finds the "frustrated 



females" (Hirsch, 371) a bit silly, a bit feeble- 
minded, because their sentiment does not seem 
directed against anything. Mr. Hirsch's inability to 
understand this scene is indicative of his inability 
to understand Louisa. Louisa has suffered: 
"With a hunger and a thirst upon me, 
father, which has never for a moment 
been appeased; with an ardent impulse 
towards some region where rules, and fig- 
ures, and definitions were not quite abso- 
lute; I have grown up, battling every inch 
of the way." (Dickens, 165) 
She has suffered in her struggle to find something 
to make her feel real, something to tell her there is 
a difference between life and death. To her quietly 
desperate "What does it matter?," her father replies 
"rather at a loss to understand . . . What matter, 
my dear?"' (Dickens, 77). Her mother is equally 
supportive, saying, "[Y]es, I really do wish that I 
never had a family. (Dickens, 42) . The love in the 
scene between Sissy and Louisa is triumphant over 
the forces that try to kill the soul; the denial of the 
human spirit is the evil, and Louisa has suffered 
through that all her life. She has done no evil. But 
the love is triumphant not so much over the exter- 
nal evil as it is over her emptiness. Her inability, 
then, to grasp "the beauty or the passion or the 
power" of art is central to Dickens' point. She has 
been hollow; she cannot fully know the possibilities 
of the spirit. What Mr. Hirsch calls her "rapid 
recovery" (Hirsch, 371) is not that at all; what he 
sees as hollow in the scene reinforces the distance 
she has to go. She is not feeble-minded; she is 
beginning to understand what it is to be human. 
It is proof of Louisa's depth that despite her 
upbringing she can have an understanding that 
there is more to life than "Ologies." Louisa couldn't 
have been saved by Sissy if she hadn't been looking 
for salvation all along. At first we think she's as 
emptied of humanity as Tom. who says, "Except 
that it is a fire, it looks as stupid and blank as 
everything else looks." We think that the Gradgrind 
education has destroyed Louisa's perceptions as 
well when she says, "I don't see anything in it, Tom, 
particularly." But we see that her emptiness — her 
hollowness — is not brainlessness but bleak, lonely 
despair. "[LJooking at the red sparks dropping out 
of the fire, and whitening and dying... made me 
think, after all, how short my life would be, and how 






Cattiopt 



little I could hope to do In It." (Dickens. 41) There 
is something especially poignant in her use of the 
word "would." as if she is not alive. 

Yet despite her emptiness she is not self- 
absorbed. H.P.Sucksmith says that the scene in 
which Louisa is sympathetic about Sissy's father 
(48) "is of immense importance in the novel since it 
indicates Louisa's better nature." (Sucksmith, 125) 
Dickens titled the chapter in which this scene is 
found "Sissy's Progress," but it is more aptly titled 
"Louisa's Progress." While Louisa is becoming 
aware of a different reality than the Gradgrlnd one, 
Tom is displaying his inability to do so: 

Louisa saw that Sissy was 
sobbing; and going to her, kissed her, 
took her hand, and sat down beside 
her . . . Here Tom came lounging in, 
and stared at the two with a coolness 
not particularly savoring of interest in 
anything but himself, and not much of 
that at present(Dickens, 46-7). 

Is it proof of Louisa's feeble-minded- 
ness. then, that she marries Bounderby to help this 
whelp? Rather, Louisa's actions for Tom are proof 
of her ability to overcome her upbringing by helping 
and loving someone else despite her aching empti- 
ness. She is not feeble-minded. "Louisa is a figure 
of poetic tragedy . . . She speaks from beginning to 
end as an inspired prophetess, conscious of her 
own doom and finally bearing to her father the 
judgement of Providence on his blind conceit" 
(Shaw. 336). 

Stephen's description of the modern world is 
perceptive enough to make him seem a prophet as 
well. 

Look how we live, an wheer we live, an' 
in what numbers, an"by what chances, 
an'wi'what sameness; and look how the 
mills is awlus a goin, and how they 
never work us no nigher to onny dis'ant 
object — ceptin awlus. Death . . . Who 
can look on 't. Sir, and fairly tell a man 
'tis not a muddle? (Dickens, 1 14) 
Does Mr. Hirsch propose that because Stephen is 
1 1 neducated and has a dialect that his observations 
are invalid? If the validity of Stephen's statement 
is accepted, what then is brainless about him? He 
suffered through his wife's abuses instead of killing 
her; he brought himself trouble by keeping his word 
to Rachael and not Joining the union; he trusted 
Tom's motives instead of Investigating the situation 
more. All of these actions brought Stephen only 
trouble and pain; are they. then, proof of his feeble- 
mindedness? These are all traits of honesty and 
decency. Is being moral in the modern world, then. 



feeble-minded? 

Stephen, like Louisa, is saved from confusion 
and despair by the healing power of love. His 
"muddle" that so exactly captures the modern spirit 
is eased a little by Rachael. who has "the touch that 
could calm the wild waters of his soul" (Dickens. 
59). Stephen speaks of the star he watched while 
trapped in the Old Hell Shaft: "It ha' shined into my 
mind. I ha' look'n at 't and thowt o' thee. Rachael, 
till the muddle in my mind have cleared awa ... In 
my pain an' trouble, lookin' up yonder. — wi' it 
shinin on me — I ha' seen more clear." (Dickens. 
207) Stephen is admirable for his goodness, but it 
is his connecting with humanity that makes him 
fascinating. Louisa's despair and Stephen's confu- 
sion exemplify modern alienation. The world is 
little improved by their salvation, but they have be- 
come more human and more at peace in a world 
that desperately needs these characteristics. 

Stephen's savior. Rachael, does not have the 
traits of alienation, confusion, and despair that 
typify modem characters. She is. rather, timeless 
in her gentle ways. Her actions are least suscep- 
tible to the feeblemindedness charge. Rachael's 
actions of tending Stephen's wife, preventing her 
from drinking poison, and not marrying someone 
else do not display any inanity, but rather a pro- 
found humanity. Her plea to Stephen not to get 
involved in reform has tragic results, but her expe- 
rience had been that dissent "only lead[s] to hurt" 
(Dickens. 252) and that the upper classes "don't 
know us, don't care for us, don't belong to us" 
(Dickens. 190). Although Rachael's plea brings 
death to Stephen, her connection with humanity 
had made his life worth living. 

The one charge of brainlessness that all three 
are open to is their passivity. All three know the 
sickness of the world — it has made their lives 
miserable — but none tried to reform it. They lived 
out their lives and watched as their world "worked 
monotonously up and down like the head of an 
elephant in a state of melancholy madness." (Dick- 
ens, 17) Rachael had been in touch with human- 
ity all through the novel, and Stephen and Louisa 
had become connected, but none tried to improve 
the world. Perhaps, then, after conquering the 
modern diseases of confusion and bleakness their 
spirits were killed by the true modern evil, the 
serpents of smoke which strangled their belief and 
hope in the possibilities of mankind. 

Work* Cited 
Dickens, (harks. HardTtmes. eds. G. Ford and S. Monod. . New York: WW. 
Norton & Co. 1966.lllrsch, David. "HardTtmes and Dr I-cavis " HardTtmes. 
New York: WW Norton & Co. eds. G. Ford and S Monod 1966-Shaw, G.B. 
"Hard Times" eds. G. Ford and S. Monod. NcwYoik: W.W.Norton & Co. 
] 9M> Sutksmllh, II. P. "Sympathy and Irony." The Narrative Art of Charles 
Dickens. Oxford at ihe Clarendon Press, 1970. 



CaCCiope 19 



The Best Years of My Life 

Carol Ann Causey 



PARTI 

Last night I was In a bind. 

I dreamt that I was attacked by my notebook. 

I was held captive outside the margin and my teacher gave me an 

"F" for sloppiness. 

The witch. 

PART II 

I heard a rumor yesterday. 

Somebody said I was a slow learner. 

Why am I always the last one to find out about these things? 

PART III 

Yesterday my teacher returned my test paper. 
I had studied for five hours the night before. 
Anyway, I made an "A." 

She drew a smiley face on it and wrote "SUPER." 
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. 

PARTrV 

I fell asleep last period. 

And now I have a large red sleeping scar on the side of my face. 

My other teachers watch me suspiciously. 

PARTV 

Today I came second runner-up in a citizenship contest. 

Maybe I didn't help enough old ladies across the street. 

Maybe I didn't donate enough money to the food bank. 

Maybe I didn't feel enough pity for the homeless. 

I don't know, 

I think I'll try a different haircut. 



Caffiope 



Then and Now, or now and again 

Steve Ealy 



Then/now 

For a moment 

We share the things that are 

ours. 

For a moment 

We share life. 

Love, for a moment. 

Tears fall and 
Remain for a moment 
To be kissed away. 
For a few steps we walk 
The same path. 
We hold hands 
For a moment. 



Sharing for a moment. 
For a moment 
We live forever. 



Now/again 



If we part — 

Or rather when we part 

for the last time. 

For part we must, finally. 

Whether by death or by life- 

The forever of 

Our moment together 

Will hold us, in 

love 

and in 

peace, 

as one. 

Joy and pain: their tears 

(our tears) 

Which stained our cheeks 

In hope and less 

Now Baptize us 

and 

Wash our feet. 



When we part, for part we must, 
We die to ourselves 
and are born to life 
Anew. 



Cafttope 



21 



Metamorphosis 

Marcy McClendon 



At some time during youth, people encounter 
experiences that cause us to reevaluate previously 
unchallenged beliefs, ideals, and aspirations. It is 
at this point that the lifelong process of acquiring 
insight into the world and the inner self begins. In 
literature, this point, this beginning of that proc- 
ess, is referred to as initiation. 

It is with this theme of initiation in mind that 
John Updike's "A & P" and F. Scott Fitzgerald's 
"The Ice Palace" were written. Centered around 
two characters in their youth, these stories unfold 
the events that lead to the epiphanies, the flashes of 
insight, that the protagonists — Sammy of "A & P," 
and Sally Carrol Hopper of The Ice Palace" — expe- 
rience. Through careful usage of details, Updike and 
Fitzgerald reveal the personalities of Sammy and 
Sally Carrol. Carefully calculated settings provide 
the appropriate conditions under which each 
character's lesson is learned. Sammy and Sally 
Carrol live in different times, different places, and 
different stories, yet the two are closely inter- 
twined by both their similarities and their differ- 
ences. By looking at the age, social status, ambi- 
tions, assumptions about life, as well as imagina- 
tion and the changes brought about in each charac- 
ter, the reader sees the comparisons between Sammy 
and Sally Carrol. 

Sammy and Sally Carrol, both nineteen years 
old, exemplify many common qualities of youth. 
Though ambitious, they are both lazy. Sally Carrol's 
laziness typifies that drowsy quality of the South of 
which she is so intricately a part. The reader infers 
Sammy's laziness from the statements he makes 
concerning the "freeloaders" working in the street, 
about Lengel, who "hides all day," and, most of all, 
in his remarks concerning the difficulty of his own 
job. Operating the cash register, according to 
Sammy, is much "more complicated than you think." 
Sammy, on the other hand, quits his job in an 
heroic effort to protect the dignity of "his girls," who 
have been embarrassed by Lengel. A more explicit 
example is Lengel's instructing the girls to leave be- 
cause they are not dressed in accordance with store 
policy: Sammy thinks to himself that "That's pol- 
icy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What 
the others want is juvenile delinquency." 

Although not directly told, the reader can infer 
the social status of both Sammy and Sally Carrol. 
Sally Carrol's father is a doctor, so it can be 



assumed that she belongs to the upper class. In the 
oil paintings of her three great uncles and Harry's 
mention of a former classmate whom he thought was 
a "true type of Southern aristocrat," there is evi- 
dence of a Southern aristocratic heritage. Sammy, 
on the other hand, apparently belongs to the lower 
middle class beacuse his vision of Queenie's home 
and the party in her living room is a sharp contrast 
to the reality of his own home and social gatherings. 
More evidence of Sammy's social status is the as- 
sumption that Queenie's home is "a place from 
which the crowd that runs the A & P must look 
pretty crummy." The social standings, though 
quite opposite, provide the basis for ambition in 
Sammy and Sally Carrol. 

Sammy aspires to climb up the social ladder to 
Queenie's level in society. He wants to get out of the 
A & P crowd and move on to bigger and better things. 
Though Sammy has his ambitions, to him, life is 
just a game. Instead of taking his job seriously, he 
sees the A & P as a "pinball machine," and the cash 
register as a piano that plays "a little song" as he 
punches the keys. He views the parking lot as a place 
where "the sunshine . . . "(skates] around on the 
asphalt." Although the reader knows that Sammy 
wants abetter life, he does not know what Sammy's 
future plans are. or if Sammy even has any. Sally 
Carrol, on the other hand, knows exactly what she 
wants in life. Like Sammy, she aspires to be in a 
different place; she wants "to go places and see 
people . . . and live where things happen on a big 
scale." She does not, however, stop there. Sally 
Carrol has real ambition: she wants to make some- 
thing of herself— she wants "her mind to grow." 
Her desire is to go somewhere where she feels that 
her energy and vitality will be useful when she is 
"not beautiful anymore." Closely tied to their 
ambitions are the illusions and misconceptions that 
Sammy and Sally Carrol harbor about people, and 
about life in general. These illusions reveal much 
about the protagonists' personalities and moral 
characters. 

With his narrow-minded view of the world. 
Sammy forms his opinions of people purely on a 
physical basis. His outlook is superficial. and he is 
unable to empathize with anyone because he refuses 
to look beneath their physical surface. Though he 
likes the girls and quits his job to be their hero, he 
perceives them with a purely lustful eye. His de- 






Cattiope 



scription of the girls in terms of edibles is dehu- 
manizing: he refers to Plaid's rear as "a really 
sweet can" and to Queenie's breasts as "the two 
smoothest scoops of vanilla he has ever seen." 
After reducing the girls to mere objects of sexual 
desire. Sammy attacks their intelligence: he claims 
that "you never know for sure how girls' minds work 
(do you really think it's a mind in there or just a little 
buzz like a bee in a glassjar?)." Sammy belittles the 
value of the girls' friendship by assuming that 
Queenie and Plaid like Big Tall Goony-Goony only 
because she is one of those girls they think is 
"striking and attractive but never quite makes it" 
and. therefore, poses no threat to them. As for older 
people, he respects them even less. Tagging them 
as animals and other low-life. Sammy sees them as 
worthless to society. The grocery shoppers are 
"sheep" who follow the lead of Lengel and obey his 
store policies. Sammy also perceives the people as 
"pigs" and "houseslaves in pincurlers" and the 
workers in the street as "freeloaders." Unable to 
empathize with others. Sammy cannot understand 
why those old "bums" buy all that pineapple juice, 
and he thinks that old "witch" has never had any- 
thing better to do over the past fifty years than 
watch cash registers. 

Not only is Sammy insensitive to people's feel- 
ings, but he also has no conception of responsibil- 
ity. As Sammy says, as far as he can tell the only 
difference between Stokesie and himself is that Sto- 
kesie is married and has "two babies chalked up on 
his fuselage." In Sammy's eyes, children are 
merely scores of manhood. However, he views 
motherhood as a loss of femininity; mothers are 
"women with six children and varicose veins 
mapping their legs." This image contrasts sharply 
with his view of Queenie's "prima-donna legs." 
Young, single, attractive girls are apparently the 
only useful people to Sammy, and even they appeal 
only to his physical senses. 

Sally Carrol in no way possesses the purely 
superficial and narrow-minded illusions that 
Sammy reflects. Judging people by their person- 
alities. Sally Carrol exemplifies a much broader 
outlook on life. She does, however, have certain 
illusions about Harry and the North. As far as she 
knows. Harry has "everything she [wants]." She 
admits to Roger Patton that she is "the sort of 
person who wants to be taken care of after a certain 
point," and with Harry, she feels sure she will be. 
He is the key to the adventures she longs to have in 
the North, which she believes to be a place "where 
things happen on a big scale" — a place of fun and ex- 
citement where she can use her energy. Like 
Sammy, however, she does classify people into 



categories and refers to them as inanimate objects. 
She perceives Mrs. Bellamy as "an egg," who 
"[typifies] the town in being innately hostile to 
strangers." In contrast to the charming Southern 
women, the women of the North appear to be "glo- 
rified domestics." She also has formulated a unique 
system of categorizing people as either feline or 
canine, felines being subtle and canines being ag- 
gressive. 

Both Sammy and Sally Carrol possess vivid 
imaginations. We see Sammy's imagination when 
he slides "right down [Queenie's] voice into [her] 
living room," and pictures her parents having a 
delightful little party where the guests are dressed 
up and the drinks have olives and mint sprigs in 
them. Sally Carrol's imagination places much less 
emphasis on money and social status and much more 
on age and sentiment. She admires the Civil War's 
"unknown" dead as well as its heroes, and, most of 
all, Margery Lee. She holds a depiction of Margery 
Lee in her mind of how she must have looked and 
acted. Her attachment to these people reflects not 
just her love for the South but also her romantic as- 
sociations with the time of the war — "that old time 
that [she's] tried to have in her." 

All of these qualities lead to the eye-opening 
experiences which change both protagonists. 
Sammy's moment of enlightment comes after he 
quits his job and realizes "how hard the world [is] 
going to be to [him] hereafter." Sally Carrol's 
illusions are gradually melted away, ironically, by 
the ice and cold of the North. As soon as she reaches 
Harry's home in the North, she begins to realize 
that neither the place nor Harry will turn out as she 
had previously expected. Alone in the ice palace she 
knows "she couldn't be left [there] to wander 
forever--to be frozen, heart, body, and soul . . . she 
was a happy thing . . . she liked warmth and Dixie. 
These things were foreign." She realizes that she 
cannot remain in the North to be buried "with snow 
on her grave . . . Her grave — a grave that should be 
flower-strewn and washed with sun and rain." 
Only at the end. when she awakens to "blurred rays 
converging toward a pale-yellow sun" does she 
make her decision to return home to the South. 
Unlike Sally Carrol's illusions which are unveiled 
throughout the story. Sammy's misconceptions are 
never destroyed by any shock in revelation that 
Queenie will someday have varicose veins . or that 
the girls are really poor. Another difference in the 
protagonists' experiences lies in the realization of 
their mistakes. Sally Carrol realizes that to marry 
Harry would be the greatest mistake of her life; 
therefore, she returns to the South. Though Sammy 
senses his mistake before he makes it. he feels that 



Calliope 



"once you begin a gesture, it's fatal not to go 
through with it." It Is in this instant — precisely the 
wrong instant — that Sammy clings to his back- 
ground and moral teachings and "policy" — the very 
thing that caused him to quit his job. Sally Carrol 
also clings to her background, the South — the lazy 
place that would take her nowhere. It is through 
these experiences that Sammy and Sally Carrol 
leam something new about themselves and the world 
around them. 




lapse in reality ron speir 



M 




Nothing was, nothing will be, everything has reality and presence 
Hesse, Siddhartha 



Caffiope 



Winner of t fie 1989 Liiiian Spencer Award for the West Worf^in Caffiope 



Life List 

Donald L. Robinson 



Playing baseball on hot asphalt streets 

Trying to find God at the Goodwill Baptist Church 

Susie Miller, my first crush 

Mandatory crew cuts in school 

Wrinkled English teachers 

Daddy beating momma when he was drunk 

Playing trumpet in the school band 

Moving to a new town 

Leaving my friends 



The loneliness of being the new kid in the neighborhood 

My first joint on my 13th birthday 

The strange taste and feeling of my first kiss 

Beatlemania 

Vietnam starting 

Daddy beating me when he was drunk 

Playing guitar in The Baby Monkees." my first band 

Wondering about the future 

Ninth grade graduation prom 



A scared 16 year old high school sophomore 

Mescaline, Acid, THC. and pot to keep a good buzz 

Colonel Agud catching me in bed with his daughter 

Woodstock 

Protesting Vietnam 

Daddy didn't matter anymore 

Trying to learn all nineteen minutes of Alice's Restaurant 

Worrying that my girlfriend was pregnant 

Take a Walk on the Wild Side" as our senior prom song 



CaCttope 2, 7 



Marrying my pregnant girlfriend 

Using food money for pot 

Slapping my pregnant wife 

April 4, — the day my daughter Natasha was born 

Arguing about money, about everything, about nothing 

Drinking like my father 

No time for music 

Fighting my own youth 

Needing someplace to grow up 



Drafted for Vietnam 

The 18 hour flight to hell 

Napalm burning villagers down to the bone 

Agent Orange killing everything 

Platoon members going home in body bags 

Thai-sticks and Australian love joints 

Two tours playing hide and seek with Charlie 

The Dear John letter half-way through the second tour 

Going home without losing my mind or any part of my body 



Mustering back into civilian life 

Welding to pay alimony and child support 

Alimony ending when my estranged wife drowned 

Natasha coming to live with me 

Learning about life from a 5 year old's view 

Playing hide and seek for fun instead of survival 

Singing her to sleep 

Sobering up because I scared her when I threw up or passed out 

Growing up because I had to 

A 28 year old college freshman 

Starting every day sober and drug free 

A crush on the dark-haired girl in my creative writing class 

Flashbacks 

Wrinkled English professors 

Coaching a little league baseball team 

Helping Natasha with her math homework 

Praying she survives 

Doing all I can to help her 



Catfwpe 



A Dream on the First Day the Sun Shone 

Kathy Cohen 

The water rushes 

Past the rocks 

Silvery shiny slipping streams 

Gold and green glint 

Like the words which fall through the 

Golden bubbling wine and from your lips in 

Streams of silver dreams 

Floating through my mind 

Around the tree where 

Underneath we once made love 

In the ever changing autumn leaves 

Past the dusky room with the orange flaming fire 

Shadows cuddle for warmth as 

Drifting purity outside the window blows 

Tiny drops of Ice now melting to shining spring 

Bubble to the front of my mind. 

Sitting here in the gleaming sun and watching — 

You work 

So near 

You blink your eyes slowly, lazily in the brightest glow 

Like a large cat content 

With the sun 

The stream The . left Qn one window-sill. 

And me. J . . 

a. o. harris 

I wish we were still there 

in those same flea market coats 

and used fedoras 
dreaming aloud over black coffee 
and generic brand cigarettes 
wishing the room was still open 

with small mattresses pushed into unpainted comers 

fighting for recognition 
with scavenged art gallery posters 
hidden amongst a sea of newspaper clippings 
and Marley's priceless smile 
wishing the window was still there 

giving the bustling street 

Where the neighboring ghetto children 
play and learn 
back to us 

our aspirations 

and our poems, 
black coffee 
cowboy cigarettes 
and that room. 



CaCCiope. 



29 



Torch of Freedom 

Jason El-Habre 



The five years I spent away from home gave me 
a chance to reflect on the changes that my country 
went through since I saw it last back in 1 975. Many 
people had died, families had separated, and the 
worst had come when the country divided into 
states that everyone had depended on before. 
Throughout these mini civil wars, I survived in a 
little roof apartment of a high-rise building that was 
located in the center of the busiest streets and near 
a famous square where the Lebanese martyrs 
statue stood in Beirut, the capital. 

On the apartment's balcony I had the best times 
with my friends, discussing our timid secrets while 
watching parades and celebrations live even before 
they were shown on the news. From behind the 
rails of this balcony I used to view some of the 
neatest looking streets in the world. Blinking 
commercial signs were planted and overlapped 
randomly on every wall and corner with different 
colors and patterns. On an adjacent high-rise I 
could see Pepsi's largest bill-board with its enormous 
letters, almost blocking a complete floor and flash- 
ing a different color every minute like a chameleon. 
Hundreds of signs made it look like Christmas 
lights blinking endlessly. 

At the center, among all these signs, the square 
of martyrs was founded. Every Lebanese recalls 
the history of the square where fifteen people were 
hung, including one woman, by the French rulers 
who governed Lebanon just before its independ- 
ence. These freedom fighters sacrificed themselves 
for the liberty of their people; thus the martyrs 
statue was erected for the people by the new 
government and the allied French individuals who 
admired the courage of these brave men and women. 
The first man of the fifteen figures in the statue 
stood in the center and raised a torch that illumi- 
nated life to a new generation. 

Under the statue the engineers buried a huge 
clock in the ground. Its hands were rotating over a 
bed of flowers that were freshened by sprinklers at 
dawn. Sometimes, in early mornings, I could see 
the water drops trapped between the leaves reflect- 
ing the first rays of the rising sun, giving people an 
excuse to start a converstaion. By this time, 
merchants' shouts were already traveling through 
the neighborhood, flowing like a stream, and an- 
nouncing the start of the busiest hours of the day. 
When Big-Ben would strike midnoon, people cov- 



ered the sidewalks, heading indifferently like sheep 
to their destinations. The cars floated on the 
streets bumper to bumper and side to side, and 
moved slowly but constantly, covering every space 
all around the square. 

In addition to the good times, bad times flashed 
through my mind. The last day before I left the 
country, I remembered that the taxi broke down 
about a half mile from the airport, and I had to walk 
loaded down with suitcases to catch my flight. 
Then five years later I came back to visit. Dramatic 
changes marked the small country and paralyzed 
its progress. It was in the early eighties and 
everything had become colorless and sad. The 
square had been transformed into a battle ground 
that separated the sites of the square witnessing 
the harshest fights that it had ever seen in its 
history. It was almost like a photo with its deep 
motionless and sovereign silence. The streets, or 
what were left of them after the bombing, were all 
deserted. The buildings were terribly shelled; 
bullet holes had chipped the stucco and burned 
what was left of it. There were no signs of civiliza- 
tion anymore; even signs for commercial stores 
were knocked down and melted to the metal. I 
could hardly see an object that stood without some 
shrapnel cutting its very core. The eighties had 
become more serious than what the people had 
expected and their fate was driving them to certain 
misery. The Pepsi sign had taken on one rusty, 
monotonous color. Some letters were blown away 
by missies and what were left were hanging precari- 
ously on the board waiting for the wind to turn them 
loose. 

At the center of the square, barricades and 
sand-bags made new landmarks dividing the city in 
the middle. I could no longer see the other side of 
the square. Cement walls blocked the main en- 
trances that led to the center of the capital. The 
martyrs' square was overrun by the high grass. Ivy 
curled around the martyrs' feet. The torch had 
been the target of a barbarous ugly act, and the 
shrapnel shredded the monument of the independ- 
ent heroes. Dust and ashes clustered everywhere 
even on top of the clock. Apparently time had 
stopped at eight-twenty p.m. when a malicious 
hand tore it up with a grenade. The hands were 
bent and pointed toward the sky, helplessly plead- 
ing God to stop the agony and the killing of more 






Calliope 



innocent people. 

A strange silence governed the old neighbor- 
hoods. All movement was strictly military. I 
noticed a couple of guys in their green fatigues on 
guard duty stationed behind a shelter of stacked 
burnt cars. Behind this guard-post I saw the M.P. 
jeeps zooming back and forth collecting and deliv- 
ering data and ammunition. I strolled further 
dowm looking for the building where I used to live. 
Half way down the block I found out that the 
building was located on the other side of the 
barricades, and it was too dangerous to cross to it. 
A sudden flash-back brought me to the good-old- 
days where there was no spite and dullness to 
extend with its black cape and shadow the martyrs' 
square. 



Disappointment and melancholy accompanied 
me on my way back. I was comparing the harmony 
that governed this country for almost a half of 
century before the civil wars with how uncertain 
and depressing life had become. Ten blood-stained 
years with no solution in sight. Sadly, all the efforts 
had failed to keep Lebanon as a whole country and 
one people. Despite the changes, the Lebanese 
people remain undaunted and continue to live 
amidst the strife. They are looking forward to 
meeting the savior who will suppress the oppressor 
and bring happiness to the needy. They await the 
time when the cloak will be lifted, when the martyrs' 
torch burns again, and the cloak begins a new era 
with peace and freedom for everyone. 




iron outlook 

heather birkheimer 



Cattiope 



31 



Standing on the Beach 

Lisa Gunderson-Catron 



While I undressed, the wind beat against the 
pane demanding to be let into the room. I pulled the 
curtains closed to answer its demand and crawled 
under the covers. On the nightstand, the candle 
flickered, but still burned brightly. I rolled onto 
my side and watched its varied hues of red as 
outlined in the dark. As I slipped off to sleep, the 
candle waned and appeared to die. 

I stood on the sand while the noon sun hung 
in the sky. Looking into the sky, I saw no clouds, 
only an endless pale blue broken by a ball of flames. 
I leveled my gaze to the horizon in front of me and 
all I saw was the endlessness of a cold blue sea. I 
turned, and my eye saw nothing except a sea of 
golden sand stretching off into the horizon. I 
turned around again and watched the frigid blue 
reach out and touch the warm golden sea. Looking 
over my left shoulder I saw a figure in black walking 
on the edges of the two seas. 

As he came closer, I lifted my hand to my eyes 
to shield them from the sun which had moved to the 
west. He continued toward me in his measured steps 
straddling the median between sand and sea. As he 
drew closer, I made careful note of his garb. On his 
left foot was a boot of shiny black leather with 
buttons climbing up his ankle. The mate reflected 
the two o'clock sun under the water. His trousers 
were of black wool and seemed not prickly but 
moving as if each fiber was a separate living organ- 
ism. 



He drew closer to me, still moving with his 
assured stride down the division of blue and gold. 
The overcoat was made of the same rough black 
fabric as the trousers. The shirt he wore under the 
carmilion vest was of the purest white linen, while 
the black tie appeared to be silk and in the tie was 
a ruby stickpin. The ruby was set in silver and it 
reflected the late afternoon sun changing the yellow 
glow into a crimson fire. It burned its image in my 
mind. 

Looking quickly up from the pin, I encoun- 
tered the eyes of the man in black. They stood out in 
his pale pox-scarred face and were framed by a pair 
of arched ebony brows. Twilight hung in the air as 
he approached me still continuing his even gait. 
When two feet away he fixed me with his eyes. They 
were nothing but empty black orbs that gave nothing 
but took everything. He seemed to stare through my 
person but acknowledged my presence as he walked 
in front of me. With the particles of light left in the 
air, I could barely distinguish his dark form as he 
lifted his smoke stack hat to me and smiled a hollow 
smile as empty as his eyes. 

"Good evening to you, sir," he said replacing 
his hat on his head. He passed me, still walking in 
his measured loping strides. I stood in black emp- 
tiness. 

He continues down the shore merging sea and 
sand, blue and gold. He continued his stroll in his 
measured walk following the sun east to west. 




antithesis 

Stacy I woks 



Cattiope 



Gabriella 
Catherine Yagecic 



As I rushed my three children out the door for 
a trip to Tijuana, I had no idea that a Mexican child 
was about to change our lives. We were headed 
across the border to the little town to get estimates 
to have a new paint Job for our car. I hadn't wanted 
to take the children, but we were unable to find a 
babysitter. Tijuana had all the charm and allure of 
a different culture, but the part of town we were 
going to this time offered exposure to things that I 
preferred to shelter my children from. I like to take 
the children when we go shopping in Tijuana. Tess. 
my five-year-old daughter, is impressed with the 
way I can speak enough Spanish to haggle with the 
local merchants over prices on items that are 
already inexpensive. We also love to dine on rock 
lobster at a diner where the window tables offer a 
view of seals begging for the fisherman's catch. 
Today, though, we were going to a less interesting 
section. We were going to Camino del Autovon, 
where the people from the country get off the bus to 
go into town so they may beg from the tourists. The 
bus is the only assistance offered by the Mexican 
government to the poverty-stricken. It is a sad sight 
to see women with their children begging for what- 
ever one might be gracious enough to give. It was 
here that I met Gabriella. 

As we approached Camino del Autovon. the 
managers of the paint and body shops waved and 
called to us to come to their shop. Each of them had 
examples of their work on display and was ready to 
enter a debate over the value of a new paint job. 
Tom. my husband, wandered off to collect a few 
appraisals and Tess. Tommy, and Andrea stayed 
with me in the car. We watched the people. It didn't 
take long for the children to become bored and 
begin to complain. I had noticed a lemonade stand 
so when Tom returned. I took Andrea and walked 
over to get refreshments. While I waited for my 
order to be filled. Andrea began to squirm. When I 
turned to investigate her discomfort, a little girl was 
reaching for Andrea's flaxen hair. The girl looked 
innocent enough, but her torn clothing resembled 
that of the street people back home. Her hands 
were filthy and I didn't want all that dirt all over my 
baby. I told her she couldn't touch the baby 
because she would get her all dirty. She qu ickly ran 
away. My order was ready now. so I gathered 
everything up and returned to the car. Just as I 
settled Andrea back into her seat. I heard "Senora. 



Senora. lavo. lavo!" Sure enough, here was the little 
girl again. This time, she had clean hands. She 
peered into the car and saw Tommy, who. at two 
years old, had the most beautiful, straight, yellow- 
blond hair that I had ever seen. The little girl was 
equally impressed. Her eyes lit up into a brilliance 
that only displays pleasure. She smiled, then 
squealed with delight. Then like a hawk attacking 
his prey, she ran to his window, reached in and 
fondled his hair. The locks fell through her fingers 
and she seemed to shudder with excitement. 

Her next discovery was the Barbie that Tess 
had brought with her. The smile told how little ex- 
posure she had had to dolls. Trying to cross the 
language barrier, she pointed to herself and said 
"Gabriella," then she pointed to each of my children 
and asked their names. Once the introductions 
were taken care of. all the children played. Their 
laughter penetrated the air like sunshine on a rainy 
day. On the way home. Tess was full of questions. 
She wanted to know more about Gabriella. She 
could not understand why she wore clothes that fit 
so poorly. She could not comprehend the poverty. 
While I prepared for the return trip the following 
Saturday to have the car painted. Tess came to me 
with a package which was wrapped in a child-like 
manner in newspaper. She asked if I would give it 
to Gabriella. I asked her what was inside. "Oh 
mom. just some clothes I don't need anymore and 
a Barbie with a pretty outfit." 

I couldn't find Gabriella that day. I looked for 
hours. A little girl about the same size had a tin cup 
in her hand. I gave her the package. I never told 
Tess. She had only wanted someone less fortunate 
to have those things. It didn't matter if her name 
was not Gabriella. 



Calliope 



33 



Autumn 

Kathy Cohen 

The leaves swirled through the air 
Brightly colored dried up dancers 
Performing their farewell dance 
In the gray sky. 

The green-gray moss hanging 
From gnarled knotted branches 
Sway and blow like and old man's beard 
Caught in the wind. 

They gray fog covered even the 
Smallest rays of the sun trying 
To break through and touch the 
Dying ground. 




geech.ee Christmas ron speir 



Calliope 



Ducks on a Pond 

Adam Tenenbaum 



The room was a mess. I had meant to clean 
it. but I just never seemed to get around to it. It felt 
so nice to sit around and do nothing, which, at the 
moment, seems to be all I ever do. I'm not exactly 
someone who needs something to do to be happy. 
I was looking forward to going home for Christmas 
soon. I am someone who needs something to look 
forward to. When I went home I looked forward to 
coming back. I was sitting against the wall, next to 
the radiator. I had the lights out. so the only lights 
in the room came from a lamppost shining through 
a window. I was leafing through an art book. I don't 
really know where I got it. It had just been sitting 
in my room for some time. I had finally picked it up 
and decided to look through it. I was stuck on one 
page with a painting of a small lake. There were 
three ducks on the lake, each with a small wake 
extending from behind it. I held the picture up to 
the light then brought it back down to my lap. The 
lake closely resembled a lake I had liked when I was 
little. 

The lake was at the bottom of a hill. The hill 
was just big enough so that you couldn't see what 
was atop it from the lake. Actually, it wasn't really 
so much the hill was raised as that the lake was 
sunken. Atop the hill, or above the valley, was my 
Sunday School. Which was exactly what I called it. 
Sunday School. It was a good-sized building, fairly 
new, built in my lifetime. It housed many class- 
rooms, from first grade up to tenth. 

The principal was a young man in his late 
twenties. He always carried a movie camera with 
him. He liked to come in and film classes. He'd 



insist that everyone act perfectly normal. That's all 
I ever saw the man do. 

Afterclass and during breaks, most kids would 
go out and play in this playground. Either that or 
throw snowballs at cars, depending on the weather. 
Not me. I spent my time at the lake. It was so nice 
and quiet. You couldn't even see or hear another kid. 

There were always a few ducks on the lake. Big 
brown ducks with a black heads and green collars. 
Healthy ducks. And lots of tall green and yellow 
grass, like wheat. 

I remember my fifth grade quite well. I'd 
walk in the door and pass the monthly-updated 
graph of how much had been collected to complete 
the proposed two milion dollar expansion. The ex- 
pansion would give us more cubic feet of space than 
any other non-profit organization in the land that 
had been the Louisiana Purchase. I sat in the back 
of the class. I rarely said anything. I was a quiet 
kid. Not many others were quiet. They wouldn't 
kick you out no matter what you did. Once, in the 
spring, the class was really acting up. The teacher 
was trying to keep her cool, but when a student 
threw some chalk she flew off the handle. She 
demanded that if anyone had anywhere else they 
wanted to be they should leave. I think I surprised 
everyone when I got up and left. I was always such 
a good student. 

I went out and sat by the lake. I sat and 
watched the ducks. I sat for a long time. It was the 
last time I ever saw that lake. 

I closed the book and started to cry. 



Calliope 



a poem, this is not. 
a. o. harris 



I haven't written In a long time 

but a poem, this is not. 
The feelings have left a mark 
upon my chest 
suns go up and down 
seeing me searching for rest 
for peace 

and sadness sees my anger rhyme 

time and time again I refuse 

to write a poem, this is not. 

Sitting under a tree in full shade 

I saw the difference in Nature 

and Man 

as trees swayed, cardinals played, a cricket stood 

upon my ankle and did he look up at me 

as to ask 

what creature art thou under our tree? 
and the ants ignored to obstacle 
and continued to labor 
in the tiny pebbles 
of white 

I still didn't write it down, this poem is 
not a poem 

to me. 
Taking paper and pen to the sea 
with me in high expectation of reaching 
back into me, into past, into experience 

and write a poem 

I failed and continue to do so now 
as I decide whether or not to write this poem, is 
not a poem 

but a mind spilling Paint 
wasting colours, moods, time, feelings, 

deciding not to write this poem. 



CaCfiope 3 7 



A Long Night Out 

Adam Tenenbaum 

I'm tired, my head hurts. 
And I still don't know anyone 
But still I drink 
Things are getting fuzzy 
The fat girls don't seem so fat 
And it's getting hard to think 
A guy sitting alone in the corner 
Gives me an 
"I'm superior to you" wink 

Fat, Fat, Fat, I say out loud 

As I catch myself 

Staring at a fat girl 

My bill will be a 

King's ransom to pay 

And my bladder is almost full 

The bathroom's packed 

And I wish I could 

Just pee in this jerk to my left's hat 

The waitress asks if I need another 

I just nod 

Nod, Nod, Nod, Fat, Fat, Fat 

I sit with my hand 
Protecting my genitalia 
I've been like that all night 
If I can protect my genitals 
And avoid the fat girls 
I think I'll be alright 



Cattiope 



Aylmer and Young Goodman Brown: 
Two of a Kind 

Cindy Halas 



The conflicts with which fiction concerns 
Itself are of many kinds: conflicts within a single 
person, conflicts between man and society, con- 
flicts between man and nature, and so on. Each of 
Hawthorne's two stories. The Birthmark" and 
"Young Goodman Brown," deals with a conflict 
within a singltethan. Young Brown Is unable to bear 
the Insight into man's sinful nature, and Aylmer is 
unable to accept imperfection. Both characters 
have an idealized, rather than a realistic, view of 
human nature. Both represent conflicting cur- 
rents, both are unstable, and both make decisions 
which lead to great misfortune. In both stories, 
Hawthorne attempts to draw moral lessons or 
intentions, as he has both characters trying to solve 
the mysteries of the human heart and the question 
of evil. 

The settings in both stories do not merely 
serve as physical backdrops, but also function to 
set the emotional and spiritual condition of the 
characters. The actual geographic location of "Young 
Goodman Brown" is. however, more Important to 
that story than is the location of "The Birthmark." 
In "Young Goodman Brown." Hawthorne sets the 
mood by describing young Brown and the wicked 
forest into which he is about to enter. In the first 
paragraph, we are introduced to the story's title 
character, we are informed that he has a young, 
pretty wife, and we are told that they live in a village 
named Salem. The word "village" indicates the 
historical setting; It takes place before Salem be- 
came a city, and at a time Just before witch trials 
were prevalent throughout the area. Finally, we are 
informed that Brown is going on a trivial errand or 
a long journey. This setting creates an atmosphere 
of gloominess and impending evil. 

I lawthorne sets the atmosphere in "The Birth- 
mark" in the first paragraph with this statement: 
The higher intellect, the imagination, 
the spirit, and even the heart might all 
find their congenial ailment in pursuits 
which, as some of their ardent votaries 
believed, would ascend from one step of 
powerful intelligence to another, until 
the philosopher should lay his hand on 
the secret of creative force and perhaps 
make new world for himself. 
The setting in "the Birthmark." like the set- 



ting in "Young Goodman Brown." gives the reader 
an Immediate sense of a coming evil. However, the 
settings are not entirely alike. In "Young Goodman 
Brown" the physical scene is important to the plot, 
whereas in "The Birthmark" the geographic locaton 
is mentioned merely to establish a period of time in 
which the scientific knowledge is expanding. Both 
settings encourage speculation and anticipation of 
what is going to happen. Aylmer is presented as a 
"man of science." one who is interested in "spiritual 
affinities." The physical environment, that of 
Aylmer's laboratory, is extremely important to the 
plot and to the character. Hawthorne uses this 
setting to reveal the intention of Aylmer. which is to 
remove the unsightly birthmark from his wife's 
face. The threatening mood of the setting is estab- 
lished when Aylmer. referring to the birthmark, 
states that "No. dearest Georgiana, you came so 
nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this 
slightest possible defect , which we hesitate whether 
to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the 
visible mark of earthly imperfection." 

Another difference is found in the attitudes of 
the two men. In "Young Goodman Brown," Haw- 
thorne has young Brown leave his wife with the 
"good intentions of returning to follow her to heaven." 
His love for her appears to be sincere, and he feels 
that what he is about to do in the forest will "kill 
her." In contrast, Hawthorne has Aylmer debating 
with his wife the issue of her imperfection. He 
cannot live with her blemish and plots to remove it. 
This suggests, although he says he loves her. that 
his love is a superficial one. a love of beauty rather 
than of person. 

The major characters in both stories, as in 
many of Hawthorne's writings, are depicted as men 
who are trying to find a hidden self — men who are 
trying to solve the mysteries of their minds. Both 
Aylmer and Brown are concerned with their prob- 
lems, and both decide to explore the unknown to 
ease their minds. Similar as they are In underlying 
aspirations, these two characters are oddly differ- 
ent. They represent two different forces: Aylmer is 
an intelligent, capable, well-known scientist who 
will go to any extreme to satisfy the cravings of his 
mind. Brown is simply confused over values of 
right and wrong. Brown sees himself in relation to 
his surroundings, to the people of the town, and to 



Cattiope 



39 



his wife. He is especially concerned with the 
hypocrites of the church and the wickedness among 
people. Behind this is the notion that Christians 
should have moral standards. One is either a 
Christian or a sinner. Brown sees his wife as an 
angel or a devil, not as a woman. When he sees her 
in the forest among the sinners, he takes an 
extreme position by saying, "Come, devil, for to thee 
is this world given." Not able to accept a mixed view 
of human nature, he sees the world the same way 
he sees his wife. 

In almost complete contrast, Aylmer sees 
himself as an accomplished scientist, capable of 
defying nature itself. His view of possessing power 
over the spiritual world does not stem from any 
religious belief. Unlike Brown, he is not concerned 
with wickedness or what is right or wrong. He is 
concerned only with the ugly mark on Georgiana's 
face. 

Faith and Georgiana, wives of Brown and 
Aylmer, have much in common. They are both 
young and beautuful, and know it and both are 
devoted to their hisbands. Faith, as we are told, is 
aptly named, but a weakness in her character is 
evidenced by her presence among the sinners. The 
details of the ribbons in her hair, combined with 
her prettiness, make us suspect that vanity is a 
quality of her character. Like Faith, Georgiana is 
vain. Committed to fulfilling her husband's de- 
sires, particularly the desire for perfection, she 
agrees to risk her life to become perfect in his eyes. 
Both Faith and Georgiana display weaknesses. 
Faith's weakness is joining the sinners, and 
Georgiana's weakness is in submitting to her 
husband's will for "beauty's sake." 

The two Hawthorne stories share another 
common element: each is based on an incident that 
takes place in a short period of time. In "Young 
Goodman Brown," the plot deals with a single night 
in Brown's life — the night he spent in the forest. 
The plot begins with Brown's encounter with a 
strange man who had been expecting him. In the 
forest, where he is led by the stranger, Brown is 
maddened with despair at finding a series of sin- 
ners. He finds that virtually the entire population 
of Salem, including the most respected citizens, 
has come to take part in the ritual of the devil 
worshippers. The "Devil's" comments make clear 
that he has friends and followers throughout New 
England: There are all whom ye have reverenced 
from youth . . . Yet, here are they all in my 
worshipping assembly." 

Brown's attempt to resist the will of the 
"Devil" begins the conflict. The highest point of 
intensity is reached when the "Devil" leads Brown 



to his diabolical rites and Brown finds that Faith is 
among the sinners. Following his experience. 
Brown returns to his home and becomes distrust- 
ful, desperate, and meditative. Hawthrone cuts 
himself off from his fellow man and condemns him 
to a life and death of gloom. 

The plot in "The Birthmark" is slightly differ- 
ent from the plot in "Young Goodman Brown." It 
deals with a minor incident, the dream that Aylmer 
has about removing the birthmark, and the major 
incident, the actual removal of the birthmark. At 
the beginning of the story, Aylmer's wife, Geor- 
giana, discovers her birthmark , a "mark of imper- 
fection left by Nature," is objectionable to Aylmer. 
Then he has a dream about it. As Aylmer and 
Georgiana discuss the dream and the birthmark, 
they both become aware of the intensity of the 
effects of the repulsive handprint on her face. The 
dream sets the atmosphere for the plot to unfold 
upon the scene of Aylmer's laboratory. Will Aylmer 
be able to remove the stain? Hawthorne makes 
certain that the reader will wonder by having 
Georgiana ask Aylmer, "Can you remove this little, 
little mark, which I cover with the tips of two small 
fingers?" During this time, the reader becomes 
aware that Aylmer, at a time when he should be the 
happiest, cannot do anything but think about the 
disgusting birthmark. And, "although Aylmer's 
passion for his wife rivals his passion for science," 
he discovers that he must attempt to remove the 
mark. Georgiana agrees since she feels that it 
would be better to die than have her husband look 
upon her as an "object of horror and disgust." 
Forgetting his past failures, Aylmer performs the 
"cure" by giving Georgiana the medicine he pre- 
pares. Georgiana dies, but Aylmer claims success. 
This is a significant one in Aylmer's life, as his 
passion for perfection causes him to lose his hap- 
piness. Hawthorne does not, however, trace Aylmer's 
development beyond Georgiana's death except to 
say that he is "living once for all in eternity, to find 
the perfect future in the present." 

The endings of both of Hawthorne's stories 
are ironically sad. Aylmer loses his wife and his 
chance for happiness. Brown loses his faith in God 
and in his family, and becomes a person of "exis- 
tence" only. 

The themes of "Young Goodman Brown" and 
The Birthmark" are likewise similar. There are 
obvious moral implications in both stories. The 
theme of "Young Goodman Brown" is "In this world 
where there is good and evil, one should develop a 
realistic view of man, and must accept man's na- 
ture and power to good or to do evil." Simply put, 
we should have the values — the senses of good and 



Calliope 



bad. or desirable and undesirable — which prepare 
us to choose from the two possibilities. 

The theme of The Birthmark" is based on 
Aylmers quest for perfection and his sin of pride. 
The theme of the story is that "one may set high 
goals in life, but the ultimate aim should be guided 
by a rational set of moral and ethical values, the 
principles of right and wrong in behavior." Aylmer 
could not accept the fact that to be human is to have 
imperfection, and that there are some things over 
which humans have no control. Both of Hawthorne's 
stories build toward the conclusion that, in several 
outstanding ways, they are more than a little alike. 
The conflicting emotions experienced by the pro- 
tagonists lead us to think that they are "two of a 
kind." 




> 



i 



<& 



strangulation by beauty dxris robinson 




Catfiope 



41 



Commentary 
Kathy Cohen 



\tfiMticj**>i{*' 



The tall dark mountains were covered 

With an angry fog so dense 

You couldn't see through it. "Crimminey," said the old man 

Sitting in the rocker on a sagging porch 

In front of the house ./ V. ... 

"It looks like snow." ?>> " "> " 



" -^^t^'^n^^vw* . **to"Wr;".-e i< .3v... i M^iXi 




anticipating revenuers waiter podmore 






^~^ 



PcortCtiE 






Calliope 



Just Can't Win 

William Hansford 



While I growed up I was such a fuss 

Everything I did made somebody cuss 

Daddy told Mama. "Thangs'll be Just fine 

The boy only needs a little bit of time." 

Time rode past like the train on its track 

And Mama made Daddy take his words back 

Trouble always found me--I just couldn't hide 

I was always a pain in somebody's side 

Then the war came along and I got hired 

They said it was a job where I couldn't get fired 

They sent me to a place where nobody'd give a damn 

They sent me to hell . . . called Vietnam 

I didn't take long 'fore I got settled in 

And I got myself a brand new friend 

It took twenty round mags fulla .223 balls 

A coupla frag grenades and I'd kill Charlies all 

Me and Sgt. Jerry we hit it off fine 

And when we weren't killin' we were sippin' on wine 

Charlie and his cousins, they corned one night 

They thought they'd take us all without any fight. 

Jerry didn't make it and I had to cry 

I swore to God that Charlie's gonna die 

So I volunteered for them recon patrols 

And that's when it happened, so I jumped in a hole 

The shootin was heavy so they left me there 

But they'd be back I heard somebody swear 

Let me take a long story and make it kinda short 

They sent me back home with a medical report 

They gave me some ribbons and some shiny little thang 

But I'd rather have my legs if it's all just the same 

Don't nobody cuss about me no more 

But can somebody tell me what we did it all for? 



Cattiope 



43 



Une Priere de Noel 



A Christmas Prayer 



Roger Smith 



Une femme monte l'escalier du Basilique du 
Sacre-Coeur a Paris. Elle s'appelle Marie et elleest 
assez jeune, assez belle, mais elle n'est n'est pas 
bien habillee; en effet elle est en haillons. Le soleil 
vient de se coucher: c'est que Maire a attendu II 
commence a neiger, et Marie commemce a trem- 
bler. Elle a froide, mais elle a peur aussi. 

Enfin, elle arrive a la porte de l'eglise, mais elle 
n'entre pas. Les portes epaisses sont fermees 
contre le froid, mais Marie peut entendre dedans 
des voix douces, comme celles des anges. On dit 
une messe de la Veille de Noel. 

Marie se met a genoux sur la marche, mais elle 
ne peut meme pas commencer un priere a cause de 
ses frissons. II y a des larmes dans ses yeux. En 
descendent les joues, les larmes gelent sur le 
visage. 

Marie est nee dans une tout petite salle ou habi- 
tait sa mere. Elle est morte il y a quatre ans, dans 
la meme chambre ou est nee Maire. Les derniers 
mots de sa mere sont toujourts avec Marie: "Ma 
fille, nous sommes toutes seules. II n'y avait 
personne quand tu es nee, ici dans cette chambre, 
entre, ces draps. Et maintenant nous sommes en- 
core seules." La mere de Marie travaillait le soir 
dans les rues de Montmarte. Elle ne savait pas le 
nom du pere de marie. Elle disait simplement que 
c'etait un cadeau de Dieu. 

La musique dans l'eglise arrete tout a coup. 
Marie ouvre les yeux et elle regarde la porte crain- 
tivement. Elle recommence a frissoner. Elle se met 
debout et la porte de l'eglise ouvre. Un feluve de 
personnes sort. La plupart ne font pas attention a 
Marie, qui est dans l'ombre, derriere la porte. Elle 
attend jusqu'a ce que la demiere personne sort de 
l'eglise. C'est une femme, bien habille, avec son 
marl. Avec un frisson, final, Marie parte: 

"Pardonez moi, madame." 

"Quoi, qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" repond la 
dame, en regardent dans l'ombre d'ou est venue 
cette voix. 

"Est-ce que je peux vous parler pendant deux 
ou trois minutes, s'il vous plait?" 

"Mais pourquoi? Je n'ai rien a vous dire!" 

"Oh, je vous implore, madame!" 
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Helene?" demande le mari 
qui avait deja descendu quelques marches de 
l'escalier. 

"II y a quelqu'un qui voudrait me parler." 



A woman mounts the stairs that lead to the 
Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Paris. Her name is 
Marie, and she is young and pretty, but she is poorly 
dressed; infact.sheis in rags. Thesunhasjustset: 
this is what Marie has waited for. It starts to snow, 
and Marie starts to tremble. She is cold and afraid. 
Finally, she arrives at the door of the church, 
but she does not enter. The thick door is closed 
against the cold, but Marie can hear from within 
sweet voices, like those of angels. They are singing 
a mass for Christmas Eve. 

Marie kneels on the steps, but she cannot even 
begin a prayer because of her shivering. There are 
tears in her eyes. As they slide down her cheeks, 
the tears freeze on her face. 

Marie was born in a very small room where her 
mother lived. She died four years ago, in the same 
room where Marie was born. Her mother's last 
words still remain with Marie: "My daughter, we 
are all alone. There was no one here when you were 
born, here in this room, between these sheets. We 
have always been alone, and we are still alone." 
Marie's mother worked nights in the streets of 
Montmartre. She did not know the name of Marie's 
father. She said simply that her daughter was a gift 
from God. 

The music in the church stops suddenly . . . 
Marie opens her eyes and stares anxiously at the 
door. She begins trembling again. She stands as the 
door of the church opens. A river of people emerges. 
Most of them do not see Marie, who stands in the 
darkness behind the door. She waits until the last 
person exits the church. It is a woman, very well 
dressed, who is with her husband. With a final 
shiver, Marie speaks: 

"Excuse me, Madame." 

"What! What do you want?" asks the woman, 
staring into the darkness where the voice came 
from. 

"May I speak to you for a moment, if you 
please?" 

"But why? I have nothing to say to you." 
"Oh, I beg you, Madame!" 

"What is it, Helene?' asks the woman's hus- 
band, who has already descended several steps. 

"There's someone who wants to talk to me." 
"I told you we shouldn't have come her tonight, 
among the vagabonds," says the man to his wife. 

"But you know I like to come here for Christ- 



CaCfiope 



Marie sort de l'ombre. et les deux peuvent pour 
la premiere fols les halllons de la pauvre. 

"Je vous ai dit que nous n'aurieons pas du venu- 
le! ce soir, parmi les clochards," dit le monsieur a 
sa femme. 

"Mais c'etalt lcl au Sacre-Coeur ou'on a baptiste 
mon pere." repond la dame. 

Marie continue, "Seulement deux minutes, 
madame.je vous implore! Quand j'avais six ans, 
ma mere m'a envoyee ici, au Sacre-Couer, avec une 
lettre. tres mal ecrite. J'en suis sure. Mais elle 
voulait que le cure me donne des instructions pour 
la premiere communion. II m'a demande siTon 
m'avait baptiste. Je ne savais pas, et le cure m'a fait 
retourner chez moi. En verite, je n'etais pas bap- 
tisee, ni ma mere." 

"Mais qu'est-ce que vous voulez de moi?" de- 
mande la dame, qui ne comprende pas. 

"Je veux que vous faissiez une priere pour moi. 
Vous etes bien chretienne, et moi, je ne peux pas 
entrer dans l'eglise a cause de mes origines et de 
mes vetements sales. Est-ce que vous pouvez 
rentrer dans l'eglise? Je ne veux pas mourir avant 
de l'avolr fait falre." 

"Mais vous etes jeune et malgre la crasse, vous 
avez l'air d'entre en sante. Vous n'allez pas mourir!" 

"Je vous implore, madame! Une priere courte! 
J'en al besoin!" 

"Non. je n'ai pas le temps. Pourquoi est-ce que 
vous m'avez choisie? Ma maison est loin d'ici et je 
dols marcher beaucoup pour arriver chez moi. 
Regardez-la. mon mari est deja au trottoir! Voici 
une piece de monnaie . . . je pense que ce e'est cinq 
francs . . . Je ne peux pas la lire. En tout cas.vous 
pouvez acheter quelque chose dont vous avez be- 
soin." 

Et la femme s'en va. II y a encore des larmes aux 
yeux de Marie. Elle tient la piece de monnaie dans 
lepoing. Elle la regarde comme une relique sacree. 
La dame est chretienne. elle a ete baptisee, et aussi 
son pere. dans cette meme eglise. le Sacre-Couer, 
ou Marie ne peut pas entrer. Mais la dame etait 
dans l'eglise. et aussi son argent. 

Marie tenait la piece quand elle a saute dans la 
Seine ou flottalent des morceaux de glace. 



mas Eve. My father was baptized here at the Sacred 
Heart. Just be glad I didn't want to come to midnight 
mass." answers the woman. 

"Yes, yes ..." says the man. 

Marie continues. "Only two minutes, Madame. 
I implore you! When I was six years old. my mother 
sent me here to the Sacred Heart, with a letter, very 
badly written, I am sure of it. She wanted that the 
cure give me instructions for the first Communion. 
He asked if I had been baptized. I didn't know, so he 
sent me home. In truth. I wasn't baptized, nor was 
my mother." 

"But what do you want from me?" asks the 
woman, who does not understand. 

"I want you to make a prayer for me. You are a 
good Christian, and me. I can't enter the church 
because of my background and my dirty clothes. 
Will you go back into the church and say a prayer? 
I don't want to die without having it done." 

"But you are young and despite the dirt, you 
seem to be in good health. You're not going to die!" 
"I beg you Madame! A short prayer! I need 
this!" 

"No. I don't have the time. Why do you choose 
me? My house is far from here, and I have to walk 
a long way to get there. Look! My husband's already 
on the sidewalk! Here's a coin ... I think it's five 
francs ... I can't read it in the dark. At any rate, you 
take it and buy something that you need." 

And the woman is gone. There are tears in 
Marie's eyes again. She holds the coin in her fist 
and looks at it as if it were a holy relic. The woman 
is a Christian, she wasbaptlzed, and her father .too, 
in this same church, the Sacred Heart, where Marie 
cannot enter. But the woman was in church, and her 
money as well. 

Marie clenches the coin as she drops into the 
Seine, where pieces of Ice are floating. 



Cattiope 



45 



Come and Go 

Connie Flythe Burnsmier 

When you come to me be silent 

Utter not a sound. 

Spoken words can be so violent 

Come to me in the dark of night 
Upon the walls no shadows cast. 
Love in the dark fades with the light 

When you leave me be ever swift 
Waste not a single minute. 
You'll leave not a single cleft 

Leave me before the break of day 
While the grass is wet with dew. 
It doesn't matter now what you say 

I never did belong to you. 



Empty Mind 

Ron Speir 



I sit upon the hill. 

Thinking quietly alone. 

The cool breeze blows 

Calmly, pulling on my hair; 

My eyes open up, 

As the world begins to spin . . . 

My thoughts float round and round; 
I recall images — people places things 
The ghosts in my mind 
Snap thoughts down my spine: 
Life to chase. Death to flee. 

Bits of logic. 

Fall in place. 

My mind begins to click; 

Shooting empty thoughts 

Straight through my head. 

The aberrations fade 
Promptly, I try to stir. 
Fighting Earth's gravity. 
And I stand, all alone. 



46 



Catfiope 



Sex Talk with Dr. Sue 

Stanley Cross 



. . . And the only way I can get It up (oops, can I say 
that on the air?). 

* Well, you already have . . . 

- Sorry. Well anyway, the only way I can get 
Aroused is if my wife dresses in camouflage under- 
wear and holds a loaded pistol to my head. 

* Well sir. I don't suppose that there is anything 
wrong with you. Many people need that rush, uh. 
that sense of mortal danger to add excitement to 
their humdrum lives. 

- I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear you say 
that. I think many less open-minded people would 
think that I'm sort of, well, perverted. 

* That's true, but I wonder if you don't think that it's 
sort of dangerous to use a loaded firearm? 

- Well, we make sure to keep the safety on. 

* I see. What does your wife think about this? 

- My wife is such a kind, gentle, understanding 
person; but I think that she kind of enjoys the role 
of Dominatrix. 

* Yes. but I do believe that it is very important to ask 
her how she feels about your. uh. special needs. 

- You're right. Dr. Sue. I'll do that. 

* Well that's good to hear. 

- Thanks a lot. 

* You're welcome. I'm Dr. Sue and this is Sex Talk. 
Hello, you're on the air. go ahead please. 

- Hello? 

* You're on the air go ahead... 

- Hi. Dr. Sue, I've got a problem. 

* How old are you? 



- I'm fifteen years old. 

* O.K. What can I help you with? 

- Well I got this girl pregnant . . . 

* Whoa, have you talked to your parents about this? 

- Well my father left home recently. . . 

* What about your mother? 

- She's never really at home. She's very involved 
with her work, that's why my father left. I think. He 
felt unwanted, that's what he told me, anyway. He 
ran away with some girl. 

* You never see her? 
-Who? 

* Your mother. 

- Oh. Well, hardly ever. Sometimes at breakfast, 
but she works at night, so she's usually too tired to 
talk. 

* Yes. but this is very important, don't you think? 

- Yes, but she usually tells me that I'm old enough 
now to take care of myself. 

* Yes. that's what I often tell my son. He's about 
your age. Isn't there anyone to talk to? 

- Well, there's the maid, but she's always talking 
about her 13 children she's been raising since she 
was 16. and I figure that she has enough to worry 
about. 

* I see. Well, listen son. I think you should make a 
special effort to tell your mother about this, don't 
you think so? 

-Yes. 

* Call her at work if you have to. 
-O.K. 



Calliope 



47 



* I hope things work out for you. 
- Thanks. Goodbye. 

* It's so important to communicate with your 
youngsters, folks. I'm a single mother and I know 
that it can be tough... Well, it's time for a commer- 
cial break. This is Dr. Sue, and you're listening to 
Sex Talk . . . 



nun 

% Hey Sue, pick up on line 3. I think that it's 
your son, he says it's important. Make it quick, 
you're on in 30 seconds. 

* Hello Jimmy, make it quick, I'm on in 10 sec- 
onds . . . 




divergence of the twain ron speir 



A Modern Poet 

Ron Speir 



Catfiope 



If my voice were strong. 
Strong enough to call out 
Across the buffer centuries. 
To call out to the past. 
Call out to those daft Romantics. 

I see the Romantic scribes. 

Putting pen to paper. 

Scribbling aerial thoughts. 

To call out to them: 

Shelley. Keats. Byron. Wordsworth. 

They wrote so boldly. 
Wild thoughts transverse 
Through the centuries. 
Pens strike forceful blows. 
Resounding through time. 
The words move me so; 
My heart swells inside. 
As I listen to the wind. 
They call to me: 
But fertile time is lost 
As I rush fervently — 
To load wordprocessor. 



Thoroughfare 

Carol Ann Causey 



Stabbing, Jabbing, desecrating my Roget's thesaurus. 
I synonymously massacre, kill, immolate my book. 
Grasping, clasping, seizing my blade. 
I slit, sever, rip its tedious pages. 

Dying, expiring, perishing, crossing the River Styx. 
I corrupt, defile, violate the immaculate. 
Shamelessly, brazenly, wantonly, without disgrace. 
Debauching, plundering, raping purity. 

An urchin, a ragamuffin, a tatterdemalion 
Pleading, begging, urging to be set free. 
Struggling, laboring, writhing to be set free. 
But denied, refused, negated . . . you'll pay. 



Destruction, obliteration, eradication 
Blood flows, trickles, circulates. 
Disorder, confusion, imbroglio. 
Terminus. Armageddon, The End. 

Damn thesaurus. 



my gang will get you. 



CaCCiope 



49 



progressing life ( i npu t , ou tpu t> ; 

s i g rn u n d h u d s o n ; 

.10 begin imairij- 

£:0 if sin( a be ) < large then 

30 cal 1 Him ; 

40 else 

50 increment (time) ; 

60 eont i nue ; 

7*0 more : 

80 test 5 

90 vnd i f ; 

1 w h ile ( n o t e n c.i c< f _ 1 i n e ) d o 

.1.10 read ( cell data); 

1£0 mul 1 ; 

.1.30 moan? 

140 end loop; 

1 50 end all;; 

.1. 60 end < ma i n > 

execution completed, 10.3.87, i£. 0: 



Rt- I esv lile, Grt 






Calliope 




passages heatfier birkheimer 



Calliooe 1990 



Volume (Seven 
Spring 1990 



Armstrong Stabs College 
A Unit of the University System of Georgia 



STAFF 

Editor: Lisa Catron 
Associate Editor: Tricia Podmorc 
Layout Editor: Ron Speir, Jr. 
Art Coordinator: Marius Quja 
Staff: cShawna Mathews 
Ashlee Waldron 

faculty Advisors: Dr. Richard C. Raymond 

Dr. Carol Andrews 



The Calliope is published annually in the spring by and for the students of Armstrong State College. 
While student work is given first priority, submissions by faculty and staff of Armstrong State arc accepted 
for consideration by the editors. 

The Calliope is produced entirely by the students on a Macintosh desktop publishing system. 
Submissions arc accepted through Fall quarter and should be placed in Armstrong's Writing Center or 
mailed to: 

Calliope 

Language, Literature and Dramatic Arts Department 

Armstrong State College 

11935 Abercom Street 

Savannah. Georgia 31419-1997 



The Calliope is designed to reflect the talents and interests of the student body of Armstrong. Con- 
sideration is given to all work done in all the various disciplines on campus. This is the first year the 
Calliope has been printed on recycled paper to support the students' growing concern for the environ- 
ment 



Printed by Atlantic Printing 
on recycled paper 



CONTENTS 



I 



Henriette and Ducks 


Dot Wade 


5 


Silvereyes 


Ashlee L. Waldron 


6 


Nature's Phoenix 


Christopher A. McMichael 


7 


The Enchanted House in the Wood 


Rick Leech 


7 


Faith 


B. Jackson 


8 


Casualty 


Christopher A. McMichael 


10 


Christmas Tree 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


11 


A Christmas Gift 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


12 


Selfmate 


Christy Cadle 


14 


II 






Untitled 


K. Roswall 


15 


Kasey's Light 


Christy Cadle 


16 


Untitled 


Adrian 


18 


Glances 


Adrian 


18 


Carpe Momentum or To You From Me 


D.R. Newman 


19 


Boater 


Adrian 


20 


Untitled 


Dot Wade 


20 


Behavioral Psychology 


B.J. English 


21 


Change the Race 


Christy Cadle 


21 


The Inescapable Condition 


Mike Pahno 


22 


Entangled 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


23 


Cracked Up 


D.R. Newman 


24 


Untitled 


Edward Jenkins 


24 


Viewing the Urn 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


25 


The Castle Wapole Built 


Lisa Catron 


26 


Composing 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


30 


Untitled 


J. Bearce 


31 


Dreams of Flight 


Gregory B. Ford 


32 


Untitled 


T. Gallaher 


33 


On Seeing Gary Snyder... Again 


Christopher A. McMichael 


34 



Ill 



deus ex machina 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


35 


Long Ago in the Woods 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


36 


Just a Dream 


Adrian 


37 


Shadows of Religion 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


37 


A Continuation of "Good Country People" 


Catherine E. Nelson 


38 


Written by Candlelight 


Gene Nelson 


40 


An American Neighborhood 


Adrian 


41 


Savannah— America 


Marius Ruja 


41 


Man's Search 


Tricia Podmore 


42 


The Psychiatrist 


Melba Nelson Moore 


45 


Bats around the Lampost 


Christopher A. McMichael 


45 


Sounds of Silence 


BJEnglish 


46 



IV 



Father Earth 




Ruth Mathis 


47 


Winter Questions 


Christopher 


-A. McMichael 


48 


The Farthest Shore 




BJ English 


48 


Shadows of Humanity 




Christy Cadle 


49 


Andrew Cox Marshall: Centarian, Slave Pastor 


Carl V. Butcher, Jr. 


50 


Untitled 




GeneLyons 


57 


Casa Mia 




Marius Ruja 


57 


A Friend in Modern British Poetry 




Ron Shafer 


58 


Untitled 




J. Burke 


60 



Youth & Childhood 




Henrietta and Ducks -- D. Wade 



"One by one he subdued his father's trees 
By riding them down over and over again 
Until he took the stiffness out of them, 
And not one but hung limp, not one was left 
For him to conquer. He learned all there was 
To learn about not launching out to soon" 

Frost, "Birches" 



Calliope 1990 5 



Silvereyes 

Ashlee L. Waldron 



I met a man with silver eyes 

he gave me some laughter, told me some lies... 

he took me to a world of kaleidoscope skies 

as I drowned in the shimmering pools of his eyes. 

Colors swirled and danced 

before his glittering eyes. 

I swam unfettered and free... 

and rested on clouds softer than a baby's sigh. 

Submerged in the molten mercury, 

I languidly reached out with one hand 

only to grasp the tail of another falsehood... 

which brought me quick out of my kaleidoscope land. 

As I surfaced through the quicksilver, 

I stopped to gather the shards of my shattered heart... 

I regretfully left that carefree, marvelous place 

and pondered the mocking silver eyes that had torn my world apart. 



6 Calliope 1990 



Nature's Phoenix 

Christopher A. McMichael 

Whispered from the child's lips 

Harken to the future's holding 

When nature 

Takes back the gifts it has given. 

From the ashes of mankind the winged figure 

Shall rise. 

And in its eye shall gleam 

The spark 

of nature's beauty 

To leap from the eye 

And once again set ablaze 

The earth. 

Until the smokeless 

Fires of nature 

Burn 

In fiery unspoilt splendor 

Once again. 




The Enchanted House in the Wood — Rick Leech 



Calliope 1990 7 



Faith 

B. Jackson 



"Mary Jo, don't let me hear you say that word again. "Belly" is such a disgustin' 
word, it's your stomach and I'm gonna fix you some supper as soon as I get you to 
the house. We just need to pick up y'all some clothes for church. I declare, I don't 
know what y'all's momma would do without us. What with y'all's daddy gone off 
to that place and left her all by herself in her condition. Earl, help me find these 
girls' shoes, that is if they got any fit to wear to church. Lord-a-mercy what these 
children done gone through." 

That's Aunt Wanda Mae, always yakkin'. All I said was my belly's grumblin'. 
I didn't mean to make her mad. She scares me when she starts carryin'on like this 
and her keepin' us. I just wish Momma and Daddy would come home and she 
would go away and leave us alone. My Momma and Daddy's better'n her, not 
always fussin' over this and that like a crazy chicken. So we got to go to her house. 
Why can't we just stay home by ourselves 9 There's plenty of us to take care of 
things. Annie and me will have to sleep in that stupid back bedroom. Looks like 
it's 'bout to fall off the house. And those bunk beds, stacked right by the windder 
I know there's a panther in those woods. One time I was sleep'n' there and he come 
right up to the windder and looked at me with his yeller eyes. I was too scared to 

8 Calliope 1990 



move. Just squeezed my eyes shut and prayed to 
God to make him go away. When I opened my eyes 
he was gone. Thank you God. 

Bubba's the lucky one. He likes it out here. He 
gets to go huntin' in the woods with EarlJr. while 
we're stuck here with you-know-who. She's bossin' 
Annie around tellin' her to hurry up and set that 
table. It's done got dark outside and my stomach 
is still grumblin' . I won't ever say that other word 
again. I don't wantt to be disgustin'. I try hard to 
be good and don't get in nobody's way. Momma 
always feeds us early and when it gets dark we've 
done had a bath. 

Supper's finally ready and we all pile around 
the table starving. She makes us wait while she 
says the blessin', "Dear Lord in heaven, make us 
humbly and truly grateful for all your 
blessins...Lord watch over these little children, 
they need your help." I know she's a good woman 
cause Momma said so, if she just didn't make such 
a fuss. 

She's got two kids herself, one good and one 
bad. The good one is Wanda Kay, she plays the 
piano and sings for us. The bad one is the boy, Earl 
Jr. One time we was all spendin' the night there, 
even Momma, and he got in the bed with me and 
asked me what was in my panties. That boy ain't 
stupid, why'd he wanta ask me that? I just 
jumped outta that bed and run to find my momma. 
She was watching tv and she put her arm around 
me and gave me a squeeze, didn't even say 'What 
you doin' up?" I didn't ever tell nobody about Earl 
Jr. except I told my sisters to stay away from him 
and that's what I do too. I sure hope we ain't here 
long. 

This room is cold but at least that panther 
didn't come back last night or nothin' else. We're 
gettin' ready to go to school. She comes in and says 
we got a baby brother. It's great because we don't 
have to go to school, but another brother? Ain't 
two enough? What's even better is Momma can 
come home now and we can too. Thank you God. 

Now if Daddy could just come home. He's been 
gone so long, I don't know how long just a long, 
long time. We all miss him so bad. On Sundays 
we all sit at the table and everybody writes him a 
letter. It makes us cry we want him home so bad. 
Momma tells us he loves us very much and that's 
why he's gone so he can be a better daddy and not 
get drunk when he gets home. We keep askin' 



when he'll get well and come home but Momma 
don't know when. She just says he'll be back when 
he's well and we'll all be happy. I sure do love my 
daddy. 

Daddy sent me a red billfoll with real leather. 
He sewed it with white laces. I didn't know my 
daddy could do that. I like it a lot and I take it with 
me every time Momma sends me to the store. 
Mostly we don't go to the store. We go 'cross the 
sidewalk and borrow toliet paper, then down the 
sidewalk and borrow soap. When Momma gets 
some money she goes to the grocery store ; then we 
give back what we borrowed. 

Finally Daddy's home but things ain't like 
they're supposed to be. I thought when Daddy 
come home that we'd be just like everybody else 
and go shoppin' in town for things but there still 
ain't no money. That's how I know about Santa 
Claus. 

Momma says that Santa Claus might not come 
to our house and I can't understand. Why not? 
Don't he love us? We all been real good. Next day 
or two I hear her talkin' about some church ladies 
are gonna give us some stuff so Santa Claus will 
come. Now I know there ain't no real Santa Claus. 
It's church ladies. 

Them church ladies brought a red wagon for 
everybody and a clown for Susie. Bubba got a 
football and a sweater but I don't think the church 
ladies brought them 'cause they're new and 
everything else ain't. I don't know where Bubba's 
stuff came from. The best thing them church 
ladies brought was on the wagon. They filled that 
thing to the brim with books. I like books. I want 
that clown but Momma says it's Suzie's. It don't 
have her name on it. But the books make me 
forget about everything else. They have pictures 
in every one. There's about a hundred of them and 
they look just like each other 'cept they got different 
ABCs on their backs. Them church ladies musta 
brought some food too 'cause we're eatin' turkey 
and dressin' and cranberry sauce. I don't think I 
ever ate cranberry sauce before or I would've of 
remembered how bad it tastes. Before we can eat 
Momma says the blessin' and she thanks God for 
bringin' our daddy home and for givin' us a baby 
brother and she thanks God for the things we got 
for Christmas. Listenin' to her, I know we've got 
a lot of good things and I'm so glad I want to cry.Q 



Calliope 1990 9 



Casualty 

Christopher A. McMichael 

The morning 

clear and warm. 
Spring, 
Renewal. 
My father's father and I 
made our way 
through the newness 
to the lakeside, 

Cane poles, 
Homemade lures. 
We found our spot, 
shady and deep, 
and cast our bait. 
Long hours we sat and conversed 
on matters and ways of life. 

Limp lines. 
Still water. 
As we made ready to leave, 
baskets empty and lines untested, 
my line snapped suddenly taut. 
A brief struggle later my prize was before me. 

Twisted. 

Deformed. 
Like some stone gargoyle 
plucked from a Medieval church. 
I cast my eyes to my father's father. 
"Son," he said, "That is just an innocent 
casualty of the war 
between nature 
and its children." 



10 Calliope 1990 



Christmas Tree 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



The star-lights sparkle 
Against the green sky, 
And the ceramic mouse hides 
In the Sky Blue stocking... 

The Wisemen walk across the limbs, 
As the Santa waves 
From underneath the tree — 
Among the bright packages. 

The Candy Cane is displayed 
With its attached note: 
"Thank You!" 
A small token. 

The child-made cross, 
Held together with yarn, 
The store-bought angels 
All hang proudly. 

The sacks of potpourri 
Mask the smell 
Of the Ceramic and glass 
Prancing reindeer. 

All the while... 
The Velvet Angel sings, 
Quietly reminding all 
Of the importance. 



Calliope 1990 11 



A Christmas Gift 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



The dollar was clutched tightly in the little boy's trembling hand. He managed 
to get the heavy glass door open and slip inside the Wal-mart. 

The greeting lady smiled at the bright young face. "Why good morning, young 
man," she greeted him. The boy just smiled proudly, "mornin'." 

He stopped in the middle of the main aisle trying to remember which way the 
perfume counter was. By force of habit he proceeded by the toy section. Without 
any conscious command, he walked right up to the G.I. Joe action figures, and 
within seconds he had weeded out all the old figures, concentrating his attention 
on the new ones. He remembered them from the cartoon. 

Then his attention broke away to the reason he came to the store. Adjusting his 
bearings, he scooted off to the perfume counter. 

He always liked the perfume section. Mostly because the rectangular glass 
cases formed a fort-of-sorts to his eyes. One day, while a saleslady left on an errand, 
he snuck behind the counter. When the saleslady returned, he was caught fending 
off an enemy attack from the Chanel No. 5 side. He would have won, too, but she 
refused to let him fire one more shot from her staple gun. 

12 Calliope 1990 



His head just could peer over the top of the 
counter. The saleslady, a different one from the 
fort adventure, didn't see the little face searching 
through the odd shaped bottles with multi-colored 
waters inside. He looked over each bottle with the 
same careful eye that had examined the new G.I. 
Joe. 

He rubbed the dollar deep in his palm. No one 
could see the dollar even if they knew he had it. 
The little hand had wrinkled the dollar up into a 
little ball that could be hidden within his tiny 
palm with the same effectiveness as a magician 
performing a sleight of hand. His mother had 
given him the dollar just that morning as his 
allowance for the week, and usually after a couple 
of weeks he had enough for another G.I. Joe. 

But this dollar was special. He had planned all 
week to put it to a good use — buying his mom her 
Christmas present. He had never gotten her a 
present before. His Dad had always winked at 
him as he handed his mom a present for him. She 
had liked the perfume so much last year that he 
figured she would need some more, especially 
after he used half of it a couple of months ago when 
playing like he was a scientist. He had mixed up 
various colored "chemicals" into a mason jar when 
his mother walked in and yelled. A new bottle of 
perfume was required to even things, although he 
had already been punished with a sharp spanking. 
He spied the same type bottle that he had 
"given" her last year. The lady still hadn't noticed 
him looking at her over the counter. She looked a 
little bit like his Aunt Annie, but she was even 
bigger than Aunt Annie — much to his amazement. 
She just could walk between the counters without 
touching both sides. And her reddish hair was 
even all curled up like Aunt Annie's. 

" 'scuse me lady," he announced his presence. "I 
need to get some perfume for my Mom." 

"Oh, my how thoughtful of you," she replied 
with a flash of her yellow teeth. "Which kind were 
you looking to get her?" 

"That one right here," he pointed out the yellow- 
colored perfume in the small round bottle. 

"What a perfect choice," she said with 
amusement. "I couldn't have recommended a 
better one myself." 

As she reached into the glass counter, his grip 
on the dollar began to loosen. And as she put a 
brand new, unopened box of the perfume down on 



the counter, he carefully placed the dollar across 
from it and smoothed it out. 

Her eyes glanced at the mutilated bill. A lau^h 
slipped from her mouth. The boy smiled at tin; 
recently acquired dollar . 

"I hope you got a few more of them son." 

"Ain't it enough?" 

"Maybe for a spoonful of this perfume, but the 
bottle itself probably costs more than a dollar," 
she responded. 

He glanced down at his sneakers, nearly black 
from playingin the ditch beside his house. "Exactly 
how many more dollars do I need? I get a dollar a 
week, so I'll get a few more 'for Christmas. That's 
what this is — a Christmas present for my mom" 
"I'm sorry son, but it'll be June or so before 
you'll be able to get your mom her present." 

His stomach turned at this news, and an "Oh" 
slipped out of his lips. "You got anything I could 
get for her?" he asked with a shaking voice. 

"Not for no dollar. Why don't you get your dad 
to come help you get a present." 

He didn't look up. His hand took the dollar 
back into its palm, and he slowly walked back 
down the aisle. He passed back by the toy section 
without looking at the G.I. Joes. He continued 
past the greeting lady who stopped him and made 
him go around through the registers to the exit. 
The dollar was once again tightly pressed within 
his palm. 



* * * 



Christmas morning came quickly. 
His dad reached under the tree, and with a 
wink handed his mom a small box, wrapped in a 
bright red paper. She read the card and smiled at 
her son. Carefully, she pried the paper away to 
reveal a box. From the box she pulled out a round 
bottle of yellow perfume. She smiled, remembering 
how he had used up half the old bottle. 

She gave him a big hug and kissed him. "Thank 
you, this is exactly what I needed." 

The boy's stomach turned. His mother handed 
him a gift that he opened even slower than she 
had opened the perfume. 

He pulled out a G.I. Joe that he already had...Q 



Calliope 1990 13 



Selfmate 

Christy Cadle 

Walk with you? 

I will 

If you'll slow down. 

We'll walk on the beach 

And gather shells 

From its shore. 

Slow down. 

Your legs are too long, 

I can't keep up. 

I'll just wait. 

Sing with you? 

I will. 

I'll sing the harmony. 

We'll sing songs from the soul 

And cry and smile 

On every note. 

Please wait. 
I'll learn the songs. 
Your voice is too strong. 
I guess I'll just listen. 

Dance with you? 

I will, 

If you'll teach me. 

We'll step together 

Hand in hand 

And move gracefully. 

Please wait. 
I'm not graceful. 
You move too fast. 
Maybe I'll just watch. 

Stop the music! 

I'll waltz alone 

To the rhythm of my mind. 






14 Calliope 1990 



Adolescence 




Untitled -- K. Roswall 



"Ahead the long rails were glinting in the 
moonlight, stretching far away, away to 
somewhere, somewhere where he could be a man..." 



Wright, "The Man Who Was Also a Man" 



Calliope 1990 15 



Kaseyfe Light 

Christy Cadle 



a I hate you!" 

Then I heard Kasey's short, angry footsteps and the slamming door. It's funny 
that even though we've grown up we still fight like we did as kids, cussing and 
screaming, until one of us leaves. I always thought that we would grow up to be 
best friends. But I guess we're just too different. 

I wasn't that upset. I knew this fight would end like all the others. No 
apologies. No compromises. We would just quit speaking to each other for a few 
days. Eventually we would both pretend that nothing ever happened. I was still 
angry, though, because she had the last word, as usual. I suppose that since I'm 
the oldest I should try to make peace and press out the wrinkles so we can be 
friends. But I can't. She never understands a word I say. It's like this game called 
"gossip" that we used to play when we were little. A bunch of kids would sit in a 
circle. Then one person would whisper a phrase or sentence to another person, and 
it would be repeated around the circle, person to person. The last person would say 
whatever it was out loud, and it would be funny because it was never what was 

16 Calliope 1990 



originally said. That's how I feel with Kasey. 
Talking to her is like talking through a group of 
people who get the words and meanings mixed up. 

I guess we get along okay. Most sisters I know 
can't stand each other. Sometimes, we actually 
get along really well. But most of the time we are 
like roommates who got stuck together and are 
forced to put up with each other. I've always 
wanted more. Sometimes, rarely, everything 
seems to be alright and we are really great to- 
gether. It's the times that make me love her so 
much, when we get along, that make me so frus- 
trated with our usual acquaintance-like relation- 
ship. If I could just get used to it being one way 
or the other, I'd be okay. But as soon as I get used 
to her moody, erratic behavior, she'll do some- 
thing really nice, like make my favorite dessert or 
give me a special gift, just because she feels like it. 
That really throws me off. But that's just how she 
is. 

If you met her, though, you'd love her. After 
you got to know her. She acts real tough at first, 
but she's really sensitive. Too sensitive, to tell the 
truth. She's independent, outgoing, and friendly. 
She can make friends with anyone. She's not like 
me at all. She actually used to tell people that I 
was adopted. I guess some people even believed 
it. We don't look alike. And we sure don't act 
alike. Anyway, she has a lot of friends, a lot more 
than I do. So if she's so likeable and friendly, why 
do we fight so much? 

My parents always said we don't get along 
because Kasey resents me. She feels like she had 
to grow up in my shadow, like everything she did 
was overshadowed by something I did. Conversa- 
tion, good grades, good jobs, some things just 
came easier for me than for her. And my parents 
felt so sorry for her that they spoiled her; I've 
always resented that. 

We have always fought a lot. Kasey had an 
inherent gift for bringing out the best, and the 
worst, in people. She knows exactly what to do 
and say to turn me into an ugly, rampaging goblin 
that delights in mental torture. I don't know; I 
think sometimes it is much easier to be mean to 
someone than it is to be kind and understanding. 

I guess I've always felt like she feels sorry for 
herself too much. I can't stand that. Mostly 
because she doesn't have a reason to. There are 
lots of good things about Kasey too. Maybe they 



are harder to see because she's so short tempered 
and moody. She always reminds me of light. Can- 
dlelight. Because it's not a really bright light, but 
it's always there. The wind blows and the light 
flickers, then grows strong again. She's not so 
bright that she stands out; she just glows a little. 

I hear the door open again and look up. Kasey 
walks in with her auburn head held high, to signal 
me that her return doesn't mean I've won. I never 
meant to make her angry in the first place. I just 
wanted to be there for her, give her a little sisterly 
advice. She didn't want it. Kasey thinks advice 
means I'm telling her she is doing something 
wrong. Maybe I am. But I'm only trying to help. 

I can hear her slamming things around in the 
kitchen and I pretend not to watch. I'm not mad 
anymore, but I can tell Kasey is. She always takes 
things harder than I do so she'll probably be upset 
for a while. I don't say anything, because it's 
obvious that she won't listen, especially when 
she's this upset. So I just watch. She looks 
different when she's mad. Her complexion is 
blotched and red, almost like she has broken out 
in a rash. And even though she is really petite, she 
seems to get a lot bigger when angry or upset. 

Things are quiet in the kitchen again. Maybe 
she's cooled off. I doubt it. She starts walking 
toward me, stomping actually, and I look away. 
Here we go again. She stops in front of me so I 
have to look up and she's holding this big plate 
piled with chocolate chip cookies. My favorite. 
Then, in her meanest, most hurt voice, she says 
that she made them for me this morning. No 
reason. Shejustdidit. It works. I feel incredibly 
guilty. All I can manage is a weak, "Thank you." 
She walks back into the kitchen and starts 
cleaning up, which is unusual, because she is 
really a slob. Anyway, the fight is over. I start 
watching her again and can't help thinking what 
a shame it is that we resent each other so much 
sometimes that it causes this wall between us. I 
guess in a way it's funny. She doesn't know that 
my resentment of her grows out of jealousy, the 
same reason she resents me. I guess Kasey 
doesn't know that it doesn't take brilliant sun- 
light to dispel shadows. Candles do it too. Maybe 
someday, when we grow up some more, I'll tell 
her. Maybe then we'll be friends. □ 



Calliope 1990 17 



Untitled 

Adrian 

I don't know what to make 

of your sometime glad to see you mood, 

of your bouncy carefree style, 

of the many things that you do. 

I don't know why I think of you 

with such fond affection, 

or why I want to make love to you 

with abandonment and perfection. 

I only know that I think of you 

whenever you are not around 

and sometimes feel afraid to think 

I might lose what I've just found. 

It's really very hard for me 

to tell you exactly how I feel, 

except that it's different, new, and real. 

And sometimes when I think of you 

it's for 20 years or more. 

Its then that I miss you 

most of all. 

I know the first time I saw you 

I looked straight into your eyes 

and I wanted you forever. 



Glances 

Adrian 



I see he now and then, here and there. 
We always smile but never speak. 
I often wonder if conversation 
is not within our reach. 

I don't want to take the chance 
to talk and break the spell, 
because when our eyes meet 
We see it all too well. 

Lifetimes in a glance. 



18 Calliope 1990 



Carpe Momentum 
or To You From Me 

D. R. Newman 



I don't know who you are. 
Do you? 
Wish I did~ 
Dear or not. 

I don't know where you are, 
But then 
I never did, 
Near or far. 

Nothing changes. Seconds drag. 

You can't know who I am. 
Can I? 

Wish you could — 
Fear and all. 

You can't know why I am, 

But then 

You never could. 

Live to die. 

Everything changes. Years fly. 

We won't know who we are. 

Will we? 

Wish we would — 

Bad or good. 

We won't know when we are, 
But then 
We never try. 
Time after time. 

Some things change. Now is here. 



Calliope 1990 19 



Boater 

Adrian 



I bounced upon the water 

in cramped style, 

side by side with disease. 

I paid in gold for quarter 
this place defiled 
among the seas. 

I cannot stand or linger 
lie down, walk or whimper. 
I can only hope for deliverance 
from those who do not know me. 



I can only hope to live 

beyond my boarded seat on the seas. 

The sun that dries my life's force, 
The night that chills my soul. 
The salt that cracks my face, 
my tribute to the old. 

It is a new place I dream of, 
foreign thoughts that I scheme of, 
and liberties unknown. 



Please don't fear my sufferance, 
I am of the boat people. 
I will be free. 




Untitled - Dot Wade 



20 Calliope 1990 



Behavioral Psychology 

BJ English 



Tired; 

too tired 

even to dream. 

Sometimes I wonder 

Why am I 

the way I am. 

I live a fairly normal life 

surrounded by 

my dreams, 

and now they 

want to take 

the dreams away. 

. . .so I can 

be like all 

the rest 

and live 

life like 

a man. 

I am not 

a man! 

I am a girl. 

And I will not 

Give up my dreams. 

so sue me 



Change the Race 

Christy Cadle 

It's the age of crack, 
burning flags, and marches 
Abortion: the Vietnam of 
the 80's 

And children without homes- 
Bearing children. 

He thinks it's funny 
And walks about singing 
"Gonna start a revolution..." 
And dreading AIDS. 

King calls him "the walking man" 
Parents call him Death 
Kids say he's a friendly lad 
More fun than all the rest. 

Churches pray for the children 
Moms cry as they sing 
Society progresses 
Won't stop for anything. 

The family struggles to 

Hold On 

But individuality and independence 

Work to break the grasp. 

Everyone is running 
The kids are running faster 
Somebody better trip them 
They're heading for disaster. 

Or least change the race. 



Calliope 1990 21 



The Inescapable Condition 

Mike Pahno 



The soft gray moss littering the cemetery grounds crunched under my feet as 
I futilely tried silencing my approach to the gathering of people around the casket. 
The service had already begun, and I was late, though I must admit that my 
tardiness was intentional. I did not want to face the ever so harsh reality that one 
is forced to view at such times: the cold realization that no one escapes death. 
Looking at the dull, silver casket which encased my friend— my very young friend- 
intensified this feeling and made me realize how foolishly unrealistic people can 
be; we seem to live in a false world of immortality in which death is an experience 
reserved for others. At least that is how I lived. Feeling uncomfortable having my 
mind inundated with such thoughts, I looked at the sky in hopes of finding some 
sign of life, perhaps a bright sun ray or a chirping bird. 

Instead, my gaze was met by a pale gray sky which seemed to stretch into 
infinity as though deliberately blocking any rays of warmth the sun might be 
trying to push through . The day was made for a funeral, I thought, while tugging 
my overcoat close to my body protecting it from the biting chill of the freezing wind 
which suddenly arose; it howled between the aged oak trees ripping moss and twigs 

22 Calliope 1990 



from the gnarled branches and sending them 
hurtling through the air to be dodged by the 
crowd. As people stirred, regaining their com- 
poser, I took more notice of them. 

Like the sky above, they seemed lifeless and 
almost frozen in time. Some looked as though 
they could actually smell the pungent odor of 
death hanging over the cemetery; others held 
visages of stoic impartiality. However, we all 
were alike in one way— everyone wore the same 
empty, soulless, black clothes: shapeless black 
dresses covered by black raincoats, veils covering 
faces, or, perhaps , a mournful gray suit. The 
donning and divesting of these clothes seemed to 
be a ritual in itself. Putting on the macabre 
apparel quenched the life force in a sea of black; 
where on returning home, the clothes were cast off 
and one re-entered the world of the living. 

The priest's chanting tore me away from the 
relative safety of my thoughts and brought my full 
attention to the ceremony at hand. In severe 
contrast to everyone else, the priest was garbed in 
vestments of the purest white; he clearly under- 



stood the rebirth in death. Even his sharp tenor 
voice pierced the thick atmosphere of gloom and 
seemed to mock death. His chanting was momen- 
tarily interrupted by a soft scraping sound. 

Distracted by the sound, I looked in the direc- 
tion of the noise and saw the casket being lowered 
into the concrete vault. My gaze dropped from the 
vault into the black pit which waited to receive the 
cell my friend was imprisoned in. For an instant, 
the hole seemed to grow larger as if it wanted to 
engulf everyone in sight to gratify an insatiable 
hunger. I stepped back involuntarily. Before the 
lid could be placed on the vault, the priest scooped 
up a handful of grayish-black dirt and threw it on 
the coffin. The service was over, and I was glad. 

Upon returning home, my mind could not stop 
filling itself with images of death and how it 
extinguishes life so indiscriminately. Rich, poor, 
young, old, black or white, it does not matter; we 
all end up the same way. I was tired of death and 
wearied from the day's events, so I took off my 
soulless black suit and started living again-but 
only for today. Tomorrow may never come. □ 




Entangled -- Ron Speir, Jr. 



Calliope 1990 23 



Viewing The Urn 

Ron Speir, Jr. 

There it sits, the urn: 
Shapely, cold, and dull, 
Basking in an eternal vision 
Never to be ended. 

Eons ago, a hand works 
Shaping the urn with care; 
Eons ago, a brush moves slowly, 
Inscribing a poem with grace. 

Many eyes have read it; 
Either the colored figures 
Or the black and white rendition 
From the hand of another artist. 

I read the colors of the urn, 
Feeling the smooth creation; 
Carefully, I raise it higher 
For a glorious display. 

The story remains frozen: 
The youth still before the kiss, 
The coquette ever running, 
The heifer never sacrificed. 

The stasis of eternity 
Cradled in my hands. 
All the suspended years, 
Slip slowly away from me: 
As the urn shatters — 



24 Calliope 1990 



Cracked Up 

D. R. Newman 

Deep dark secrets, tales untold- 
Haunting everyday, unfold- 
Little by little, causing more 
Confusion. Evermore. 

Eternal nights existing amidst nothing. 
While anxiety eats away all sanity. 

Will it ever change? It seems not. 
Can life be reclaimed? Perhaps, but 
Likely will remain a voidal vortex 
Until dustbound. 

When that dusky day arrives-grieve not! 

Anyone who might. Rejoice, however, 

For my spirit shall be free 

Of all this misery- 

My person prison, my mind, my life. 

Ruined by the pleasures I sought to release me 

But which only bound me tighter, 

And threw me down the dark chasm of madness. 




Untitled -- Edward Jenkins 



Calliope 1990 25 



The Castle Walpole Built 

A Critical Essay by 
Lisa Catron 



In 1764 Horace Walpole launched a new genre into the public arena which 
would forever change the shape of literature. His romance The Castle ofOtranto 
propelled the Gothic novel into the forefront of late eighteenth century British 
literature, and this new genre, with Walpole's work as the cornerstone, would later 
influence literature to the present day. Although the work is not spectacular in its 
words, plot or characters, The Castle of Otranto and its creator stand as the 
watershed between eighteenth century literature and nineteenth and twentieth 
century literature. In his introduction to his edition of Walpole's The Castle of 
Otranto and the Mysterious Mother, Montague Summers, the foremost scholar on 
the Gothic, states, u The Castle ofOtranto is, in fine, a notable landmark in the 
history of English taste and English literature" ( 1 vii). The Castle ofOtranto is such 
a landmark because of its break with the fashionable novel, its tone and its 
redemption of the Gothic tradition. 
Until Walpole's Castle came about, the Gothic was shrouded in baseness. In the 

26 Calliope 1990 



Spectator number 62 written in 1711, Addison 
writes: 

I look upon these Writers as Goths in Poetry, who like 
those in Architecture, not being able to come up to the 
beautiful Simplicity of the old Greeks and Romans, have 
endeavored to supply its Place with all the Extrava- 
gances of an irregular Fancy. (192) 

For Addison, "Gothic" was wild and unrealistic 
and possessed no use in the day of didactic and 
moral writings. In 1749 a most notable novelist 
made his opinion of Gothic known in his novel 
Tom Jones . In this novel Fielding has Mrs. 
Western rebuke her brother with, "O more than 
Gothic ignorance" (308). In the eighteenth cen- 
tury the word "Gothic" carried with it a very 
definite and particular meaning which "conveyed 
the idea of barbarous, tramontane, and antique" 
(Summers 37). The derogatory connotations sur- 
rounding "Gothic" would continue to swirl about 
unrefuted until 1756. 

With the publication of Edmund Burke's Philo- 
sophical Enquiry into the Origins of Our Ideas of 
the Sublime and the Beautiful in 1756, a psycho- 
logical study of eighteenth century mentality was 
attempted and the first step to redeeming the 
Gothic had begun. In his work Burke deals with 
the idea of Terror and the effects it can produce in 
a reader or a viewer. Burke saw both Gothic and 
Terror filling up a person so one could not enter- 
tain any other object or idea. Burke was followed 
in 1762 by Bishop Richard Hurd with his Letters 
on Chivalry and Romance. In his twelve letters 
Hurd deals with the Gothic as being superior over 
classical art because the Gothic could produce the 
sublime. With these two studies behind him, 
Walpole steped forth in 1764 to create a new form 
of literature which would dispel the myth sur- 
rounding the eighteenth century notion of Gothic 
and endow it with a new definition. 

The first edition of The Castle of Otranto ap- 
peared on Christmas Eve of 1764, just two years 
after Hurd's defense of the Gothic. In this edition 
Walpole states that the story is a translation 
taken from an ancient manuscript written in 
Naples during 1529 and he, Walpole, is merely the 
translator. He "guesses" the author's motives in 
writing the tale and sees Terror, which never 
allows the story to languish, as the principle 
engine of the work. Walpole makes a pointed jab 
at the novelists of his time by stating, "there is no 



bombast, no similes, flowers or digressions, or 
uunnecessary description" (16). The work holds 
no interruptions by the author on such ideas of 
love or prudence like Fielding or other eighteenth 
century novelists. For Walpole, "everythi ng tends 
directly to the catastrophe" and "the reader's 
attention is never relaxed" (17). He concludes the 
Preface by stating: 

Though the machinery is invention, and the names of the 
actors imaginary, I cannot but believe, that the ground 
work of the story is founded on truth. (17) 

Walpole bases his assumption on the careful 
descriptions given of the castle like "the chamber 
on the right hand"; thus, he feels the author has 
some real castle in mind. 

When the first edition sold all five hundred 
copies, a second edition came out in in April of 
1765 with a new preface. In the second Preface 
Walpole admits to writing this fantastic tale. 
Walpole steps out from behind the behind the 
"translator's" veil because of "the favorable man- 
ner in which this little piece has been received by 
the public" (19). In the first edition Walpole had 
no idea of the reception The Castle would receive, 
and, to save face, did not own up to the writing of 
the tale. Upon being received quite well by the 
public, Walpole admitted to the authorship and, 
in the second Preface, explained why he wrote the 
work. Walpole states that The Castle of Otranto 
was: 

...an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, the 
ancient and the modern. In the former, all was imagina- 
tion and improbability: in the later, nature is always 
intended to be, and sometimes has been, copied with 
success. Invention has not been wanting; but the great 
resources of fancy have been dammed up, by a strict ad- 
herence to common life. (19) 

The Castle of Otranto was Wal pole's way of rebel- 
ling against the popular novel. The common- 
place, current events, and the moralistic over- 
tones, which authors such as Richardson, Field- 
ing and Smollett used, were the dams that stopped 
up fancy and imagination. By relating his tale in 
novel form, Walpole would create a hybrid where 
action was continuous and the marvelous would 
reign. Robert Kiely states in his The Romantic 
Novel in England that 

...he [Walpole] obviously had it particularly in mind to 
correct an imbalance by letting fanciful and mysterious 
deeds flow abundantly over the familiar ground culti- 
vated by novelists of "common life." (5) 



Calliope 1990 27 



For Mudriek the work seems "to have been writ- 
ten not by a person but a schizoid Time-Spirit" 
(10). 

This schizoid Time-Spirit known as Horace 
Walpole, son of the great politician Robert Wal pole, 
was a man who felt and lived in the past. In a 
letter to his friend George Montagu, Walpole 
writes: 

Visions, you know, have always been my pasture; and so 
far from growing old enough to quarrel with their emp- 
tiness, I almost think there is no wisdom comparable to 
that of exchanging what is called realities of life for 
dreams. Old castles, old pictures, and the babble of old 
people, make one live back into centuries, that cannot 
disappoint one. One holds fast and surely to what is past. 
The dead have exhausted their power of deceiving — one 
can trust Catherine of Medicis now. (Summers 153) 

Holed up in his "castle" Strawberry Hill, Walpole 
surrounded himself with objects from the dark 
ages and drew from these the details of his tale. 
Turning back to the middle-ages, the amateur 
antiquarian turned around the conventions of the 
novelists and set about writing his tale. 

The characters of the tale are not outstanding 
in any way. They are stock characters drawn from 
old fables and myths. The two main characters 
are Alfonso the Good, who is dead, and Manfred, 
the man who usurped Alfonso's castle and title. 
Alfonso may be dead, but he is far from gone. The 
figure of Alfonso is the main engine behind the 
tale. The Castle ofOtranto begins with Alfonso's 
helmet, from his statue in front of the St. Nicholas' 
Church, falling from the sky upon Conrad, 
Manfred's son, just minutes before he is to be 
married to the fair Lady Isabella. In chapter two, 
Alfonso's giant foot and leg appear in the court- 
yard. Later, his giant sword appears. Alfonso has 
come back to avenge Manfred's usurpation of his 
title and lands from the legitimate heir. The 
legitimate heir is none other than Theodore the 
peasant, who really isn't a peasant. The reader is 
given clues to Theodore's real identity with pas- 
sages such as "a young hero resembling the pic- 
ture of the good Alfonso in the gallery" (47). 
Theodore falls in love with Matilda, Manfred's 
daughter. Matilda is only second to Hippolita, 
Manfred's wife, in her long suffering at the hands 
of Manfred. Hippolita is past her child bearing 
years and Manfred needs an heir. He turns to 
Isabella. Manfred designs to divorce his wife and 
marry Isabella, who runs away to seek sanctuary 
in the church. 



The characters are passive and only act when 
Fate, in the figure of Alfonso, takes a hand. The 
confusion which the plot, characters and action 
produce is apt. As Kiely writes, "Gothic fiction 
was not only about confusion, it was written from 
confusion (36). Unlike the novel, The Castle of 
Otranto possesses nothing which is normal, for in 
the tale the abnormal rules. The reader finds no 
touchstone in any of the characters to measure 
the actions of the other characters. While the plot 
tends to be confusing, only one thing holds it 
together — the Castle. 

The castle serves as the glue to hold the tale 
together. In creating his castle, Walpole built the 
classic Gothic castle found in literature. The 
chase after Isabella leads down into the cloisters 
with secret passages and tunnels (37). The cham- 
bers of the castle are lavish, but an air of gloom 
pervades all. Although the castle is not described 
in length, snatches of description permeate the 
tale to keep it cohesive. 

As confusing as the tale sounds, it does not 
differ from novels such as Tom Jones in the area 
of hidden identities. With mistaken identities 
aside, Walpole cuts all ties with popular novels. 
Ghost run rampant in the tale, unlike Tom Jones 
where they were mocked. The ancestral ghost 
which walks from the painting and beckons 
Manfred to follow is a new convention in litera- 
ture, but is still used today (35). The pieces of 
Alfonso's armor falling out of the sky seem absurd 
to twentieth century readers, but they were new 
in the eighteenth century. The figure which 
confronts Frederic, father of Isabella, is a skeleton 
with "fleshless jaws and empty sockets" wrapped 
in a hermit's cowl (104). These visions of the 
fantastic and marvelous are found only in 
Walpole's tale and absent in the novel. 

In the popular novels of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, dialogue or letters allowed the author to 
convey the actions and feelings of his characters. 
Walpole's work, in contrast, stresses not the words 
of the characters, but rather the lack of words. 
For Walpole words are all too frequently unable to 
convey what a character is feeling. When Conrad 
is discovered crushed by Alfonso's helmet, the 
servant is described as: 

...running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes 
staring and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but 
pointed to the court. (27) 



28 Calliope 1990 



As Isabella runs through the "intricate cloisters," 
her lamp is extinguished by a sudden gust of wind 
which leaves her in the dark. Walpole writes that 
"words cannot paint the horror of the princess's 
situation" (37). While words were the cornerstone 
of the novelist's trade, Walpole shows that words 
cannot always describe feelings. 

The feelings of Theodore to Matilda are those 
of love, but a love which can never be. Unlike the 
novel, the two lovers are not united at the end. 
Wal pole's tale allows no reward for chastity or 
innocence. Matilda is presented as the dutiful 
daughter, pure and innocent, but to no avail. 
When Theodore questions the friar, "Can guilt 
dwell with innocent beauty and virtuous modesty 
[Matilda]", the friar replies: 

It is sinful to cherish those whom heaven has doomed to 
destruction. A tyrant's race must be swept from the 
earth to the third and fourth generation. (94) 

Manfred's race is doomed. Walpole turns to the 
idea of the sins of the fathers being revisited on 
their children. Manfred ends up killing his own 
daughter. Theodore, now the Prince of Otranto, 
mourns his loss and marries Isabella. Their 
marriage is one of convenience, for: 

Theodore's grief was too fresh to admit the thought of 
another love; and it was not until after frequent dis- 
course with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was 
persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society 
of one, with whom he could for ever indulge the melan- 
choly that had taken possession of his soul. (111&112) 

On this note, the novel ends. For Walpole with his 
vision, there is no happy ending, only one of the 
continuance of life despite upsets. This schizoid 
Time-Spirit bridges the space between ancient 
and current time. Although the characters are 
two-dimensional, the plot keeps the reader swept 
up in the action and brings to life the marvelous. 
Walpole's ability to bridge the gap between the 
occult, the fanciful and the marvelous to create an 
entertaining tale is his greatest achievement. 
The eighteenth century was ready for such a 
bridge and eagerly crossed over it looking for new 
bridges to the world of imagination. The tale was 
translated into French in 1767, Dutch in 1777 and 
Italian in 1791. The tale hit the stage under the 
name of The Count ofNarbonne on November 17, 
1780, and was a smash (The Castle of Otranto and 
the Mysterious Mother xxxvi). Walpole's Castle of 
Otranto permeated the eighteenth century world. 
Based on the reception of the tale by society, one 



should not be surprised at the onslaught of Gothic 
romances which followed in the latter part of the 
eighteenth century and early nineteenth century. 
Walpole's tale started three new genres — the 
Gothic, the ghost story and the detective story — 
all of which are still alive today. M.R. James, the 
foremost scholar on the ghost story, saw Walpole's 
tale as "the progenitor of the ghost story as a 
literary genre" (37). E.F. Bleiler saw The Castle of 
Otranto as "the primitive detective story" with 
God or Fate as the detective (xv). Bleiler also saw 
the tale as an important source for the enthusi- 
asm which swept the latter eighteenth century 
and linked it to the Romantic movement of the 
nineteenth century with "Manfreds" running 
rampant. As Bleiler writes of The Castle of Otranto, 
"it embodies the spirit of an age (xiii). Summers 
states that to Walpole's work, "we own nothing 
less than a revolution in public taste, and its 
influence is strong in the present day" (Ivii). 

In the present day The Castle of Otranto seems 
absurd with its falling helmets, walking skeletons 
and figures that walk out of paintings. By reading 
the work in an eighteenth century context, one 
can appreciate the sudden break Walpole made 
with the developing novel. The serious students 
of literature cannot dismiss Walpole's tale, for it 
sowed the seeds of new genres which are still 
growing in the twentieth century. Walpole's Castle 
built a new literary tradition which writers still 
inhabit today. □ 



WORKS CITED 
Bleiler, E.F., ed. Three Gothic Novels . New York: Dover 

Pub., 1966. 
Fielding, Henry. Tom Jones. New York: Penguin, 1988. 
Haining, Peter, ed. M.R. James — The Book of Ghost 

Stories. New York: Stein and Day, 1984. 
Kiely, Robert. The Romantic Novel in England. 
Cambridge,Mass: Harvard UP, 1972. 
Summers, Montague. The Gothic Quest. New York: 

Russell & Russell, 1964. 
Walpole, Horace. The Castle of Otranto. ed. Marvin 

Mudrick. New York: Collier, 1963. 
Walpole, Horace. The Castle of Otranto and the Mysterious 

Mother. Ed. Montague Summers. New York: 

Russell&Russell, 1924. 



Calliope 1990 29 



Composing 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



The rum and coke sits beside the computer- 
The radio hums out a tune: 
"Summertime..." 

The keys soon begin to click. 
Letter after letter appears, 
And soon the words come, 
Then a line — 
Marked with a return. 

The soul flows out the fingers 

Across the cold keys 

Into the interface. 

The screen begins to fill... 

The computer begins to process... 

It feels the words, 

Beeping at the missspellings. 

The poet orchestrates the tune: 
"Living is easy" 
CLICK-click-click-CLICK-click-return. 

A sip from the glass, 
A renewed vigor. 
Finally, it is done. 
But without saving... 
He turns the computer off, 
Sipping slowly and deeply. 



30 Calliope 1990 







Untitled -- J. Bearce 



Calliope 1990 31 



Dreams of Flight 

Gregory B. Ford 



April, 1945. I walked across the ramp from the briefing hut: another day, 
another bomber escort mission. I stopped short of the row of P-5 ID Mustangs and 
drank in the cool breeze that engulfed our secluded English airfield. I gazed at my 
plane, with her six machine guns protruding from her wings and the off color 
patches covering the bullet holes she had received. Painted on the fuselage, below 
the bubble canopy, I noticed the addition of another swastika, my fifth. I had shot 
down five German planes. I was an ace. I was a hero. 

April, 1969. Like other fifth-graders, my friends and I shared this dream of 
glory. We wanted to be heroes, but we didn't want to be firemen or policemen or 
even astronauts. We wanted to be fighter pilots and fly the planes that became 
famous during World War II. We read every book in the school library that dealt 
with aircraft and flying. We built models of our favorite planes and we even bought 
and flew the Cox gas engine replicas. Everything we did dealt with flying. 

32 Calliope 1990 



As time passed and our group broke up, I lost 
my desire to be a hero, but I never lost my desire 
to fly. I continued to read about planes and flying. 
I thought about the freedom of soaring through 
air, man and machine versus nature. But for all 
of my reading and dreaming, flying remained only 
a dream. 

September, 1989. I walked across the ramp 
from the office: my first flight lesson. I stopped 
short of the Cessna 150 and choked on the heat 
rising from the asphalt here at Ridgeland, S.C.. 
Damn, it was hot! As I waited for my flight 
instructor to join me, I took another drag from my 
cigarette and gazed at the red, white, and blue 
plane before me: no guns, no bullets, no symbols 
of victory. This wasn't the P-51 of my dreams, but 
then I never dreamed about the butterflies that 
were churning in my stomach either. 

I read the manual and performed the pre- 
flight inspection under the watchful eye of Oscar, 
my flight instructor. He was calm, cool, and 
collected; I was a nervous wreck. We climbed into 
the plane and started the run-up procedures. By 
this time, I was sweating profusely. Oscar ex- 
plained the mechanics of taxiing and told me to 



move the plane forward. I eased the throttle in 
and mashed the rudder pedals with my feet. We 
rolled out to the edge of the runway, made a 
clearing turn, and moved down to runway three. 
If someone had been watching from the air, he 
would have thought he was watching a snake 
move across the ground: I couldn't keep the plane 
rolling in a straight line to save my life. "Oh, well, 
111 get the hang of it," I thought as I turned the 
plane into the wind for take-off. 

Still sweating and beginning to feel my muscles 
tighten, I ran through the pre-take-off checklist: 
nose wheel straight, flaps up, carb heat off, trim 
tab to takeoff position, radio call. With a final 
check of the sky, I grabbed the yoke with my left 
hand, pushed the throttle all the way forward 
with my right, and released the brakes with my 
feet. We were rolling and gaining speed. I felt 
Oscar's feet on the pedals, but I was the only one 
holding the wheel. At 55 knots, I began to pull 
back on the yoke. Shivers ran down my spine as 
I felt the plane transition from a ground to an air 
vehicle. I wasn't doing everything right, but at 
that moment, I didn't care. I forgot about my 
aching muscles, my drenched shirt, and my pound- 
ing heart. I was flying! □ 




Untitled - T. Gallaher 



Calliope 1990 33 



On Seeing Gary Snyder...Again 

Christopher A. McMichael 

The world changes. 
This I have seen 
I have seen it 
when the tail of a pony 
has been cut short. 
And skulls on a string 
have been replaced by paisley ties. 
But the power never leaves 
No matter how much suppressed. 
Its flesh can be seen 
Pushing through the constricting 
materials of conformity. 



34 Calliope 1990 



Middle Age 




Deus ex machina -- Ron Speir, Jr. 



"In me she has drowned a young girl, 
and in me an old woman 

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fist" 

Plath, "Mirror" 



Calliope 1990 35 



Long Ago in the Woods 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



I thrash through the drifts of pine straw, 
Seeking out a hidden enemy 
Who lurks behind the trees and bushes, 
A phantom of my childhood world. 

I stumble into a bare clearing, 
Holding a pile of wood, stacked 
In the middle of the perfect circle; 
My game falls prey to curiosity. 

The pile stands between two crossties 
Eight feet across, four wide, six high; 
Each log lodged snugly into the stack, 
A half completed wall — abandoned. 

Could the ghost have built it, 
Starting a fort to defend himself 
From my relentless pursuit? 
I can think of no other reason. 

I pull out one brick of the wall, 

Not a brick from the level top, 

But from the heart of the construction; 

The wall tumbles down before me — victory! 

Now I look back to those visions 
Filled with the joy of imagination; 
No forts or walls lurk in those woods, 
Just ancient, rotting wood piles. 



36 Calliope 1990 



Just A Dream 

Adrian 

I dreamt 
that I saw Jesus through the Battlesmoke. 

He was dying one more time. 

He was talking to his brethren, 
he was calling out their names. 
He said that those who died there, 
had no claim to fame. 

I dreamt 
that I saw Jesus through the Battlesmoke. 

He was calling out my name. 




Shadows of Religion -- Ron Speir, Jr. 



Calliope 1990 37 



A Continuation 
of "Good Country People" 



Catherine E. Nelson 



Hulga sat motionless in the hay thinking about what had transpired. With each 
passing moment, her thoughts ignited a fire that burned until she was about to 
explode. The afternoon soon turned to darkness and Hulga sat helplessly in the 
loft. As each moment passed, Hulga became more and more bitter at the thought 
of her humiliating experience with Manley Pointer. How could this have hap- 
pened? He was an idiot, just "good country people," or could it be possible she didn't 
know how to judge people at all? She thought a moment and thought, no, of course 
not. 

Manley Pointer found the train station in the next town, hopped in a vacant car 
and was off to the next conquest. As he sat in the empty train car, he reached for 
the valise and took out his prized possessions. With the grin of a lunatic on his face, 
he examined the contents of the valise. The glass eye, the false teeth, and Hulga's 
wooden leg brought a sinister laugh to his lips. 

Meanwhile, it was early evening and Hulga began to drag herself to the 

38 Calliope 1990 



descending ladder. As she sat pondering the way 
to get down, her rage flared. The anger she felt 
towards Manley seemed minor compared to the 
strange feelings she was feeling about herself. 
For the first time in her life she was questioning 
the world with a totally new set of eyes. The 
thought came crashing into her conscious mind 
with a harsh blow. Hulga had been made a fool of 
by one with a far lesser meaning of existence and 
the disturbing thought was her unimportance on 
the scale of existence. Sure she was educated be- 
yond her mother's perception of practical need, 
and she wasn't a pleasant person, but she never 
considered herself evil either. Hulga suddenly 
realized she was a miserable person with a miser- 
able life. Her surroundings were less than 
stimulating. Perhaps she should leave the farm 
and teach college or counsel the less fortunate in 
hospitals. For now, she had to get down and back 
to her mother's house. She would get down and 
begin her new life somehow. 

As Manley sat in the train car admiring his 
trophies, he heard a strange noise, a screech of 
metal against metal. His last memory was that of 
his body being airborne. 

When Manley awoke weeks later, he was in a 
hospital bed. He heard the voices around him 



whispering about how the trains had collided. 
Manley looked around him and everything ap- 
peared very hazy. He could not feel his legs or his 
arms and he felt an awful pain coming from his 
left eye. He was too weak to raise his head and 
evaluate the damage. 

An incredible terror came over him. He sud- 
denly felt helpless and at the mercy of his caretak- 
ers. He called out help and a nurse appeared. 
Consoling him, she said he would be alright and 
that with the help of artificial limbs he would be 
almost normal again. Manley shrieked with horror 
and fainted from the overwhelming news. When 
he awoke again, he felt an eerie presence in his 
room. He looked around the room and saw three 
figures. Once his eyes focused, he recognized the 
figures with agony. 

The three women approached his bedside. The 
first woman had no eye om the left side. She bent 
down and whispered to Manley, "remember the 
old biblical saying? An eye for an eye." The next 
woman had no teeth; she bent down and whis- 
pered "a tooth for a tooth." Finally the third figure 
appeared close to Manley's face. She bent over 
him and whispered "Manley, you possess only one 
wooden leg, you are going to need to get another."^ 



Calliope 1990 39 



Written by Candlelight 

Gene Nelson 



As I crush the butt of 

my last, stale cigarette, 

I see myself in the mirror: 

My eyes don't gleam as they once did 

the dull sulfur stench of the burnt out match 

still lingers on the air. 

Perhaps I, too, linger although dull and burnt out. 

But as I look at this pile of ashes 

surrounding this burnt out match, 

I wonder: 

Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. 

My memories. 

Car and plane crashes; waste and lust. 

My tragedies, 

and the horrors of this world. 

The candle by which I write 

FlIcKeRs 

Ever so softly, 

And the life within me does the same. 

The time has come for all good men... 

Are there any left in this world? 

Are there any men left in this world? 

Is there any point to ask? 

But as the light flickers, 

And my hand grows weary, 

And I grow weary of this pale gray existence, 

And the last curl of smoke drifts 

From the butt of my last stale cigarette, 

And my pencil grows dull, 

And my life stays dull, 

We all expire at once. 



40 Calliope 1990 



An American Neighborhood 

Adrian 



I heard the sound of a machine gun. 

Crack. Crack in the night. 

The sound of tires squealing, 

two race cars in a fight. 

The sound of a young girl screaming 

slap, slap 

something ain't quite right. 

Listen closely. 

Can you hear the sirens reaching 

out into the night? 

Don't worry, 

it's just the sound of a American neighborhood. 

Can you see the steel gleaming 

bloody from the fight? 

Or the smoke come slowly boiling 

from inside the glassy pipe? 

Have you seen the feet that shuffle, 

the eyelids nodding in sleep 

from dreams that don't come cheap? 

Don't worry, 

just the sights of an American neighborhood. 





IN AMERICA 



•ROLLS -REMNANTS AREA RUGS -CARPET PAD' 
j CUSTOM COLORING ■ DESIGNER RUGS SUPPLIES ■ 

pi tect- WhjoHL- m m j 

V C&IA m ! AMERICAN CARPET I ^ fr _ o** 
H.^W AND CLEANING SOLUTIONS? **&%& 




Savannah -- Americia -- Marius Ruja 



Calliope 1990 41 



Mans Search 

An Essay by 
Tricia Podmore 



"O Voltaire! O Humanity! O Idiocy! There is something ticklish in the truth, and 
in the search for the truth; and if man goes about it too humanly — 'il ne cherche le 
vrai que pour faire le bien — I wager he finds nothing!" 

f #35, Beyond Good and Evil) 

"On the Spirit of Gravity" Nietzsche gives us perhaps the most valuable advice 
and insight into life and reaching the "overman" state that we will ever know or 
experience. While there are undercurrents of Christ throughout the work Thus 
Spoke Zarathustra this particular section gives the most exacting explanation of 
the belief that religion is indeed dead. Man has lost his creativity as well an 
individuality in the notion of "good" and "evil." 

Man evaluates all of his actions, beliefs, and ethics by the invention called "good" 
and "evil." Evaluations, judgements, or values based on this invention eliminate 
all creativity, and man becomes a parasite of the earth much like the leech who 
sucks others' blood to sustain its life. The leech's only purpose in life is to suck 

42 Calliope 1990 



the blood of man, thus narrowing its life to the 
point of blindness. "I am the conscientious in 
spirit" is a statement which shows how man 
narrows himself to blindness just like putting 
blinders on a horse (362). A man who limits 
himself only to the job-at-hand or to one subject 
can only find himself blinded to creativity. "What 
is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an 
end: what can be loved in man is that he is an 
overture and a going under," which is why man 
can not restrict himself like the conscientious 
man and his leeches; he must be a bridge not an 
island (127). Men who bar themselves from any 
thought or desire other than the desire of eternal 
life in an unexplored heaven inhabited by a god no 
one has seen are parasites of this earth. The man 
who lives by "good" and "evil" judgements so he 
may die and ascend into heaven is a leech, a 
parasite to the earth, and gravity has won yet 
another soul. The convention of "good" and "evil" 
robs man of his creativity as individuality, and 
man becomes not only a parasite, but also a slave 
to gravity and gods. 

Gravity weighs man to the earth just as the 
dwarf tells Zarathustra that his teachings are 
like a stone, "but every stone that is thrown must 
fall" (268). Christ fell and Zarathustra must fall 
also because to simply replace one with the other 
is to still pull man to the earth and thus cause man 
to "like a camel, ...kneel down and let himself be 
well loaded" (305). "O Zarathustra, you 
philosopher's stone, you slingstone, you star- 
crusher," should make man realize that just as 
the alchemists were trying to find a magical 
material to turn lead to gold, so is man in his 
narrowed judgements by "good" and "evil" ( 268). 
Man must be the "lion" and roar "No" to the "thou 
shalt" written on the dragon's scales. 

Man begins at birth like the "ass," a beast of 
burden laded with " original sin." The institute of 
religion lades with judgements, "grave" words, 
and values that man accepts and refuses to ques- 
tion for fear of reprisal. "We are presented with 
grave words and values almost from the cradle: 
"good" and "evil" this gift is called," states 
Zarathustra ( 305). The entire precept of Christi- 
anity is that by baptism, in the name of Christ, 
man has removed his "original sin," but has man 
really unburdened his sin, or has he only begun 
a long descent? Martin Heidegger tells us that 



man is thrown into the world at"present-at-hand" 
and must get back to "readiness-at-hand," which 
is the authentic self. Zarathustra says man must 
become "the light one" (304). Whether man 
begins life thrown into the world, laded with 
original sin, or heavy with gravity, he must find 
his authentic self so he can revere life and be a 
boullion of gold, not a cheap nickel-plated trinket, 
because he has allowed himself to become a "last 
man." Man should not allow life to be tarnished, 
but it should be light, an epithany, or it should 
soar like the eagle who knows no gravity. 

"Tes, life is a grave burden.' But only man is 
a grave burden for himself!" states Zarathustra, 
but man must cast the stones off and learn to fly 
(305). "Earth and life seem grave to him, and thus 
the spirit of gravity wants it. But whoever would 
become light and a bird must love himself: thus I 
teach" (304). The weights must be cast off; man 
must crack the shell of the oyster and discover the 
gem inside — his personal pearl. Man must redis- 
cover the childlike innocence of life and become 
"the light one." He must turn gravity upside- 
down until the rocks fly and the oyster splits wide 
open. 

Life, like the oyster, can have a tough crusted 
shell which can seem impossible to open. At man's 
first opening he may only see a "nauseating and 
slippery" sight, but there are indeed "delicacies" 
that "find no tasters" (306). The "last man" is a 
nontaster because he only sees the slime and 
nauseating sight, unable or perhaps unwilling to 
search further for the pearl or to taste "the most 
exquisite delicacies" (306). They are there for the 
taking like a simple white gate that opens to a 
sweet, rose-laden garden. 

The garden is barren because the herd of "good" 
and "evil" have trampled it until only jimson weed 
will grow. The "deep yellow and hot red: thus my 
taste wants it; it mixes blood into all colors," 
strives to make man thirst for chaos and lead the 
laden herd out of the "growing wastelands" ( 306). 
Chaos, the opposite of gravity, has a high entropy 
and therefore is more stable. Man must not 
"whitewash his house" because he is simply 
"whitewashing his soul..." (306). 

"Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypo- 
crites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, 
which indeed appear outward, but are within full 
of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness" (Mat. 



Calliope 1990 43 



23:27). Matthew's statement shows man's "white- 
washed soul" because man is indeed a hypocrite 
when he only cleans the outer shell and keeps his 
heart and soul full of evil. Man betrays himself of 
his soul when he refuses to discover his "authentic 
seir and find total "openness." Man must accept 
himself in totalness with no preconceived conven- 
tions of "good" and "evil" before he can begin to 
accept others and love himself. "Even so ye also 
outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within 
ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity" only serves 
the "last man" because the bridge must go deep to 
the soul's center not just embrace the shell of man 
(Matt. 23:28). "Then said Paul unto him, God 
shall smite thee, thou whited wall: ..." also shows 
man that "whitewashing" the temple or soul only 
serves man until the rain of openness and judge- 
ment strips the shell away (Acts 23:3). Judge- 
ment must be within if there is to be an institute 



of judgement, but it must allow creativity. Man 
must accept himself before he can accept other 
men, especially a god because the "last man" is the 
leech. 

The "last man" does not know how to love 
himself ; therefore, he can not love anyone be- 
cause to give love freely is to first love one's self. 
He must rediscover the child-like innocence of 
himself and of his world. "And therefore one 
suffers little children to come unto one — in order 
to forbid them betimes to love themselves: thus 
the spirit of gravity orders it" (305). A child knows 
no "good" and "evil" until he is taught their 
meaning, thus causing him to become the laden 
adult. Like a boulder , the will is pulled and 
tugged from the earth, and again "gravity" has 
accomplished its mission — "the last man" with a 
"whitewashed soul," closed oyster tight, no longer 
a "will" free to create. □ 



44 Calliope 1990 



The Psychiatrist 

Melba Nelson Moore 



Darkness surrounded me and fear lived there 

And I was like a tiny doll 

Hemmed in by monsters from my past. 

A great void lay before me, 

Across its depths a river ran 

Made of whispers, mocking and accusing. 

The light was over there and I could not reach it. 

Then a voice spoke softly to me 

From the safety of the hill, 

"Don't be frightened, I am here 

And I will guide you through. 

Each day we'll slay a beast that bars your way." 

He dragged from deep within my soul 

The dread that fed their existence 

And each day one died, 

For it could not stand the light. 

I grew as time moved on, and the beasts grew 

smaller 

Until one day they were gone. 

And the whispers died like vanished wind. 

Beneath the whispers ran a highway, 

Golden like the sun, 

Across the way the voice called gently, 

"Come over and I will take you home." 



Bats around the Lampost 

Christopher A. McMichael 

Pieces of the night sky 
Swoop down 
to bother the light. 
Drawn by promise 
of prey found 
only in the bright 
sheltering glow. 



Calliope 1990 45 



Sounds of Silence 

BJ English 

Silence springs off of the kitchen walls 

And Echoes down stair vertebrae 

To thunder through the halls 

Sending waves through water tank 

That sullen sits in cellar dark: 

Reverberating deep in sound 

It works its way now underground 

Lost in chasms of the deep 

Where silence rests but does not sleep. 

Silence human ears can't hear 
Is yet not silence, so I fear. 
Someone may whisper "help" to me 

And I, deaf soul 

It cannot be! 

Why be there sounds beyond our grasp 
That sudden make us shiver, gasp, 
When man made instruments unveil 
Sounds of the muses' piercing wails. 

Tomorrow do not call for me, 
For I have drifted out to sea. 
I sail to find the farthest shore, 
Where silence stirs man nevermore. 



46 Calliope 1990 



Old Age 




Father Earth -- Ruth Mathis 



"Children picking up our bones 

Will never know that these were once 

As quick as foxes on the hill;" 

Stevens, "A Postcard from the Volcano" 



Calliope 1990 47 



Winter Questions 

Christopher A. McMichael 

I'm walking behind myself 
Through the littered fields 
of the past. 

White crows of paradox 
scream from the 
dead trees of winter 
while the ice underfoot 
Flows like quicksilver, 
into swirling questions. 
And the fire engines rush by. 



The Farthest Shore 

BJ English 

Further away from the light he flew. 
Further away from the misty dew, 
Further away where the earth meets sky 
To the farthest shore where man-gods lie. 

Further away where the sun shines red, 
He stopped awhile to rest his head. 
Further away three trumpets blew, 
But God was the only one who knew. 

Further away from the earth's sea tide, 
Heaven's gates drew close inside, 
Shuddered their last and heaved a sigh. 
God bowed his head, but could not cry. 



48 Calliope 1990 



Shadows of Humanity 

Christy Cadle 

The moon sits 

At the peak of the mountain, 

A blood red, angry moon. 

Shadows in the valley 

Call out, 

Screaming their breasts, in silence. 

The moonlight avoids them, 
The stripped shadows... 
Their essence has gone 
The moon has fallen. 

The trees sigh, offering comfort 
As the shadows weep. 

The sun dawns 
Burning their souls, 
Increasing their burden 
They will succumb. 

Still, at night, 

The shadows return, 

Raising their arms 

And childless bosoms 

And beg for the time 

When the light will dawn 

And return their bodies to them 

As is right. 

Until then, they live 
Only at night. 



Calliope 1990 49 



Andrew Cox Marshal: 
Centenarian, 61ave, Pastor 

Excerpts from a biography by 
CARL V. BUTCHER, JR. * 



CHAP. 1 CENTENARIAN 

The French and Indian War was in progress in the year of 1755 and on July 
9, Edward Braddock, commander of the British forces in America, was defeated 
near what is now Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. This event in history, according to 
Andrew Cox Marshall, determines the year of his birth. 1 

CHAP. 2 SLAVE 

Andrew Marshall was born a slave on a plantation somewhere in South 
Carolina. ' According to his mother, an unmixed Negro, his father was an English- 
man overseer on this plantation. 2 For this reason the term mulatto usually ac- 
companies the description of Marshall; technically this word means that an 
individual had a white and a black as parents. The story goes that Marshall never 
knew his father, who left for a trip to England and died there shortly after Andrew 
was born. 3 This event and developments shortly thereafter drastically altered the 
course of his life. In the words of J. P. Tustin, 

50 Calliope 1990 



"It is asserted by Andrew that he had been entitled to his 
freedom from birth, as his father had arranged with a 
mulatto person by the name of Pendarvis, before going to 
England, that the negro mother and two children which 
she had borne him were to be provided for, and the chil- 
dren educated, and that upon his return the father would 
secure their freedom. His premature death becoming 
known, the mulatto overseer managed to enforce a claim 
against the estate of the father, and mother and children 
were seized and sold as slaves." 4 

It is not known under whose ownership An- 
drew Marshall was born. He was first sold, 
through, to John Houstoun, Colonial Govenor of 
Georgia. 5 At the age of 16 Andrew married. 
Sometime during these years he saved John 
Houstoun's life and was promised his freedom. 6 
Alas, a tragic turn of events would again alter the 
course of Andrew's life. Houstoun died in 1796 
and with the executor's failing to carry out 
Houstoun's will, Marshall was sold never again to 
see his wife. 7 Overcome by this unfortunate and 
cruel treatment, Andrew fled and was sold again, 
this time to Judge Clay of Bryan County, Geor- 
gia. 8 

At this point, Andrew Marshall's life would 
take an abrupt turn, but I must share several 
stories of special interest that took place in his life 
as a slave. 

While in the service of Judge Clay, a member 
of Continental Congress from 1778-1780, Marshall 
had the opportunity to travel north on official 
trips and was privileged frequently to see General 
George Washington. 9 In 1791, when Washington 
made his trip to Savannah as America's first 
President, Marshall was appointed as his body 
servant during his stay. 10 In Tustin's words, 

"Andrew said that Washington was uniformly grave and 
serious, and that he was never seen to smile during his 
whole visit, though he was always calm and pleasant. 11 

Another story of particular interest about 
Marshall was that during the early period of the 
Revolutionary War when the embargo had taken 
place in Savannah, city merchants paid him 
$250.00 to warn a group of ships that were wait- 
ing in a bay to the south. It is reported that 
Marshall completed this assignment and the 
vessels were able to escape. 12 

There were other responsibilities afforded to 
Marshall during the war and following the war. 
He recalled many of the details surrounding Gen- 
eral Nathanael Greene's death and funeral. 13 Not 
only did Marshall himself make history, but he 



was also privileged to see some of Savannah's 
greatest historical moments. 

Under the ownership of Judge Clay and in the 
latter years of the 18th century, Andrew Marshall's 
life, as was mentioned earlier, would change 
dramatically. This dramatic change occurred when 
Marshall found the saving knowledge of Jesus 
Christ who became his personal Lord and Savior. 
We will see in the following pages that this single 
most important event in Marshall's life so affected 
him that he would spend the rest of his life shar- 
ing his lord with others. 

Quietly, during these days, there was a small 
band of blacks that were slowly becoming a fellow- 
ship that would eventually be known as the First 
African Baptist Church. The origin of this move- 
ment took place in 1773 when George Leile was 
converted and began to preach. 14 Leile immedi- 
ately began a ministry that included travels from 
plantation to plantation sharing his new-found 
faith. In 1781 Andrew Bryan was converted and 
baptized by Leile. 15 Bryan's sister was the mother 
of Andrew Marshall. 16 

On January 20, 1788, Andrew Bryan was 
ordained to the ministry by Reverend Abraham 
Marshall; and it was also at this time that Bryan's 
fellowship was organized into a church that would 
be called the First African Baptist Church. 17 There 
is no doubt that Andrew Bryan was a tremendous 
influence in Marshall's life. There are some re- 
ports that Marshall was converted under Bryan's 
preaching and then baptized by Reverend Tho- 
mas Burton. 18 Others say that Marshall was 
baptized by Reverend Henry Cunningham. 19 The 
documented facts of Marshall's conversion and 
baptism were not found by this researcher, but 
none can argue that his life was changed. 

Eventually Marshall found himself answering 
to a new master again. One report says that 
Marshall was sold to Robert Bolton from the 
estate of Judge Clay who died in 1804. 20 Another 
report has it that Judge Clay sold Marshall to 
John Bolton in 1803. 21 It was after this that a 
business associate of Bolton's, Richard Richardson, 
purchased Marshall and loaned him $200.00 with 
which he would buy his freedom. 22 Marshall took 
this loan and with his savings as well as his own 
diligence and ambition he was able to not only buy 
his own freedom but also the freedom of his wife 
Rachel, their four children, his father-in-law, and 



Calliope 1990 51 



his stepfather. 23 These must have been glorious 
days for Andrew Marshall. He had spent approxi- 
mately fifty years and what would be nearly one- 
half of his life in slavery but now he was free! 

CHAP. 3 PASTOR 

Following Marshall's conversion he began to 
assist his uncle, Andrew Bryan, in the duties of 
the ministry. He was not alone in this effort since 
another fellow, Evans Grate, was also developing 
in the ministry as well. 1 The following words from 
James Simms describes how this old preacher 
along with his younger aides ministered to their 
flock. 

The assistance.... much relieved his arduous labors of the 
Sabbath in preaching and administering the ordinances. 
On those occasions the old bishop (as he was sometimes 
called) might be seen at the river seated in his chair (so 
the twowheeled carriage drawn by a horse and in which 
he now almost constantly rode was called). As the can- 
didates were immersed by his assistant and rose again 
from their watery grave, his silver hair, smiling face, and 
hearty amen spread a halo around the scene. Himself 
gave them the charge relative to their future conduct in 
life; extending the hand of fellowship and welcome to the 
table of our Lord after baptism, in the presence of the 
ready-prepared communion -table, the members in their 
seats and the newly born and baptized all standing. At 
such times the scene was solemn and impressive in the 
extreme, as the aged man's words dropped upon the ear 
and entered the heart and mind, subduing the will." 2 

It was apparent to the flock that Bryan favored 
Marshall as his successor. Grate was more seri- 
ous and devoted but Marshall promised far more 
ability. 3 On October 6, 1812, Andrew Bryan 
passed away after some twenty-four years of 
ministry to his church. 4 His two assistants, each 
being ordained, continued to serve their fellow- 
ship together for a period of time. Andrew Marshall 
would spend the next forty-four years, the rest of 
his life, in faithful service to this fellowship, First 
African Baptist Church. 

There is much debate why Marshall didn't 
immediately become pastor at First African Bap- 
tist Church. He had begun a successful dray 
business about this time; it is this business that 
would enable him to gain his freedom and would 
supoort him and his family for most of his minis- 
tering years. Through his dray business, he also 
developed many contacts and friendships among 
prominent citizens that would influence and 
benefit him for the remainder of his life. 5 There is 
no doubt that his association with educated 
masters, President Washington, and these busi- 



ness contacts played a large part in building the 
business skills and people skills that were so 
important to the development of this man. So, it 
is possible that the responsibilities of his business 
prevented either Marshall or the church from a 
decision as to his leadership as pastor. 

In any case, sometime in the year 1814 or 1815 
the church appointed a day in which they would 
seek the Lord's guidance and choose one of these 
men, Evans Grate or Andrew Marshall, as their 
shepherd. 6 The following quotation is from James 
Simms book, The First Colored Baptist Church In 
North America, in which he describes the day of 
decision as related to him by Samuel Cope and 
Jack Bourke, two old members who witnessed the 
event. 

There was no preaching on that day. Mr. Grate was 
present, and as a meek and humble Christian man, 
though not very learned or able as a minister, he had won 
the love and confidence of a large portion of the members 
of the church; and so for the first time in her history, 
having to make the choice between two candidates for 
her pul pi t, there was very naturally an event of some mo- 
ment among them that day. Rev. Mr. Marshall seems to 
have had confidence in the wisdom of the church, and 
thathiscall wasinthehandsofGodandhisbrethren. He 
absented himself on the occasion and went to the Presby- 
terian Church. At twelve o'clock the church proceeded 
to the business of calling a pastor, and many strong 
appeals were made in the behalf of the latter from the 
standpoint of the wish of their old shepherd, his uncle. 
Great fears were entertained by those of his friends who 
really desired Mr. Marshall as their pastor that Mr. 
Grate would defeat him; but when the vote was taken, 
though a large body rose in his favor, Mr. Marshall was 
found to have received a majority, and became their 
pastor." 7 

Andrew Marshall entered the full-time pastor- 
ate and must have taken seriously his call and 
confidence which had been expressed by his con- 
gregation. The church was strong and unified 
with many newcomers being added to her roll. 
Mr. Grate, quite admirably, continued to serve as 
an assistant and served in evangelism for many 
years. 8 

The statistics of church growth for First Afri- 
can Baptist Church between 1815 and 1818 do not 
exist. However, on November 7, 1818, a group 
met at the Sunbury Baptist Church in Liberty 
County to form an association of churches called 
the Sunbury Association. The member churches 
of this new association were First Colored Baptist 
Church (soon to be changed to First African Baptist 
Church), Savannah Baptist Church (white mem- 
bership), Second Colored Baptist Church, Great 



52 Calliope 1990 



Ogeechee Baptist Church, and Sunbury Baptist 
Church (mixed white and black membership). 
The representatives for First African Baptist 
Church that first year in the Sunbury Association 
were Deacon Adam Johnson and Josiah Lloyd; 
they reported their membership as 1712. 9 

Obviously the Lord was using Andrew Marshall 
in much the same way that Liele and Bryan were 
used before him. People were being reached with 
the truth of the Gospel. 

The church fellowship was also important to 
the blacks for another reason. Savannah did not 
offer much to the slaves since they had little or no 
money. Therefore, the church served as the social 
center of their lives as well as the spiritual center. 
It should be considered then that such a large 
body of blacks, most of whom were slaves, might 
have been a considerable threat to the white 
community at the time. This fellowship, First 
African Baptist Church, could not have escaped 
drawing attention with such large members par- 
ticipating in their gatherings. This scrutiny would 
eventually bring with it a new challenge for An- 
drew Marshall. 

During the time period of 1819 -1821, Marshall 
apparently was beginning to gain reasonable 
financial comfort through his dray business. It 
was about this time that he decided to build a two- 
story brick home on lot number 19 in Yamacraw 
and on the corner of Bryan and Farm Streets. 10 
A problem occurred when Marshall, unintention- 
ally it is told, purchased his bricks from slaves 
who had no permission to trade. He was eventu- 
ally prosecuted since the bricks were said to have 
been stolen from a Mr. McAlpin. The sentence 
was to be a public flogging in the market square. 
It was not to be, though, as Mr. Richard Richardson, 
Marshall's master and friend, stepped forward 
with his influence. He rallied friends and busi- 
ness associates who were there as a powerful 
group on the day of the whipping. They insisted 
that the constable should not draw blood nor even 
scratch the skin and Richardson stood by the old 
preacher to see that their demands were met. The 
execution turned into nothing more than a sem- 
blance. 11 

In spite of this and other struggles Marshall's 
constituents loved him and supported him. The 
church continued to grow. In 1826, First African 
began the first negro Sunday School program in 



North America. This effort was accomplished 
through the help of a Mr. Lowell Mason who was 
superintendent at the Independent Presbyterian 
Church. 12 

About this same time there was a radical group 
called Campbellites growing in the Wellsburg 
area of what is now West Virginia. This group 
evolved into the denomination that we know to- 
day as the Church of Christ. Alexander Campbell 
was their leader and he was charged a heretic by 
Baptists in 1816 when he preached a sermon he 
declared that: 

...the Christian dispensation was free of Old Testament 
law that was not reiterated in the New Testament." 13 

A Savannahian, Mr. S. C. Dunning (1780-1858), 
was a follower of Campbell and was responsible 
for a congregation of Campbellites. 14 Dunning 
and Andrew Marshall were among the first Geor- 
gians who subscribed to a new publication, The 
Millennial Harbringer , that Alexander Campbell 
began producing in 1830. 15 The story is beginning 
to unfold now of a major confrontation that will 
development in the life of Andrew Marshall, his 
church family, and the community of Savannah. 
There existed a Georgia law at that time that 
prohibited blacks from assembling in groups larger 
than seven unless they were supervised or spon- 
sored by a white or whites. Savannah Baptist 
Church happened to be the sponsor for the First 
African Baptists. The Baptists opposed what 
would come to be known as the "Campbell and 
Dunning Doctrine." 16 The stage is set for the 
confrontation that would develop when in 1832 
Alexander Campbell came to Savannah. There he 
found the white churches closed to him, but he 
was welcomed by Marshall to the pulpit at First 
African. For several months the church operated 
in a state of confusion and disorder. This situ- 
ation deteriorated to the point that one Sunday 
evening the city officers had to be called in to 
disperse the rivals and some were even arrested 
and whipped! 17 

The unstable condition of the church climaxed 
when the Associational Meeting was held in Lib- 
erty County on November 9, 1832. Deacon Adam 
Johnson and Rev. Marshall were the delegated for 
First African but the Association refused to re- 
ceive them. 18 This was a shock to Johnson who 
already in oppossed Marshall over the Campbell 
incident. The Association appointed a committee 



Calliope 1990 53 



to investigate the situation existing at First Afri- 
can and on November 10, 1832 the following 
report was filed: 

The committee to whom was referred the consideration 
of the difficulty existing in the First African Church, 
Savannah, make their report. 

Your committee after a serious consideration of the 
painful and difficult task assigned them, would present 
to your body the following resolutions, as the result of 
their consideration: 

Resolved, that we approve highly of the recommen- 
dation of the council of ministers that was called VIA, 
That A. Marshall be silenced and we concur in the 
opinion that he be silenced indefinitely. 

Resolved, that the First African Church, as a member 
of this Association, on account of its corrupt state, be 
considered as dissolved; and that measures be adopted to 
constitute a new church as a branch of the white Baptist 
church. 

Resolved, That we advise our colored brethren in the 
country, now members of the African churches in Savan- 
nah, to take letters of dismission, and either unite them- 
selves with neighboring churches of our faith and order 
or be constituted into separate churches. 

The committee recommend the public expression of 
this body, extending their entire approbation of the 
Christian deportment of the Second African Church. 

Resolved, That a copy of the above resolutions be 
transmitted to the mayor of the city of Savannah. 

Signed, 

Samuel S. Law, 
Moderator 
Oliver Stevens, 
Clerk 19 

Following this report, Deacon Johnson and 
Rev. Marshall rallied their opposing forces. The 
Savannah Baptist Church had recently moved 
into their new workshop center and had vacated 
their old building on Franklin Square. Marshall 
purchased this facility with help from his promi- 
nent white friends and all but 155 members moved 
with him to the new facility leaving the old prop- 
erty to Deacon Johnson and his 154 followers. 20 
According to James Simms: 

The bold effort on his part gave him a great advantage 
over his opponents, and drew the people to him in means 
and numbers: and they met with him and prayed, if they 
could do nothing else; but he was careful to keep within 
the bounds of the law by having some friendly white 
person always present on the occasion of his meetings. 21 

Marshall's church continued to be called First 
African Baptist Church and Deacon Johnson's 
group came to be known as the Third African 
Baptist Church. 

In 1835 Marshall and First African Baptist re- 
applied to the Sunbury Association for member- 
ship. A decision was postponed for investigation 
but later their request was denied. In 1836 there 



was held a meeting between the two factions. The 
meeting was opened and Deacon Adam Johnson 
of Third African Baptist recited the charges against 
Marshall and First African Baptist: 

... proclaiming from his pulpit the erroneous doctrines of 
Mr. Campbell, thereby creating a schism in the church 
and among the people since; that Mr. Marshall had 
denied that he had so preached from the pulpit, and that 
from said denial a question of veracity existed, which, as 
the representatives of this church, he and his brethren 
thought should be settled; that they had no malicious 
feeling against him, neither did they desire to hinder the 
good among his people that he was so capable of doing; 
that they appeared there simply in the defence of truth, 
and all they asked, on their part, was that Mr. Marshall 
would make confession that they had not misrepresented 
or wronged him. 

Mr. Marshall, being called upon by the council to 
answer, rose with grave submission and, with his native 
eloquence confessed. He said that what Brother Adam 
and the other brethren had said about this matter was 
true, only with this difference, - that he did not say from 
his pulpit that he agreed Mr. Alexander Campbell's doc- 
trine, but that being favorably impressed from hearing 
him expound them, when he had examined the doctrines 
for himself, if he found them true according to Mr. 
Campbell's views of them, then he should join him; but 
upon a more thorough examination of the scriptures, he 
saw no reason to change his faith in the doctrines as now 
held by his Baptist brethren. 23 

Feelings were being mended and healing was 
underway. 

In 1837, First African Baptist was reinstated 
to membership in the Sunbury Association after 
denying any belief in the doctrine of Alexander 
Campbell. Rev. Andrew Marshall and Deacon R. 
McNish represented her at this session and re- 
ported her membership at 1810 members. 24 

Having led his flock through this tremendous 
storm, life must have settled down to some extent 
for Marshall. We must consider that in 1837 he 
had reached the age of seventy-five to eighty-two 
years old. The normal routine of preaching, visit- 
ing, and ministering would be quite a task for a 
man of his age. He had great influence throughout 
the plantations and countries around Savannah. 
He would often travel long distances to preach or 
conduct funerals. When he did speak in larger 
communities his services would be attended by 
large crowds. He would occasionally preach in 
Augusta, Macon, Milledgeville, and Charleston, 
and in far off places such as New Orleans. 25 It was 
not unusual for his services to be attended by the 
most prominent white people in the community. 
The Legislature of Georgia, in its entire body, 
even gave him a hearing once. 26 



54 Calliope 1990 



In the last years of his life, Marshall had a 
dream to build a new house of worship for his 
church family. The old building was of wood con- 
struction and by this time it had reached a dilapi- 
dated state. The city ordinances would not allow 
another wood building to be built on their prop- 
erty; therefore significant funds would be re- 
quired to build a stone structure. Looking back at 
Marshall's life and the many challenges that he 
faced is enough to understand why he confidently 
set out to face this new challenge. He had learned 
over the years that he had a most capable God and 
that the real challenge in life is to rely on God's 
strength and purpose and to avoid getting in the 
way of his work. Mr. Marshall led his people in 
laying the foundation for the structure which 
stands at the present site today. However, this 
must have drained the poor flock of their available 
funds since Marshall then made plans to travel 
north to solicit donations for his building. 27 

The trip would last over a year and would be 
very stressful to this old soldier. His wife, Sarah, 
accompanied him and they also hoped to see phy- 
sicians along the way who might help Andrew 
with his ailments. 28 Along the way he would 
preach in different churches and would share the 
needs that existed back home. Marshall travelled 
as far as New York and preached in several 
churches there. One Sunday afternoon he preached 
in the Presbyterian pulpit of a Rev. Dr. Preston, 
The "Baptist Recorder" reported it this way in the 
May 18, 1855 issue of the Frederick Douglas 
Paper in Rochester, New York: 

I came to church expecting to hear a wreck of a preacher 
- a negro preacher - I found in the pulpit a master in 
Israel. Age had not touched his faculties, his mind is 
vivacious, and its workings are as true and faithful as are 
the intellects of men of thirty or forty years of age... This 
noble preacher had more points of power in that hour 
than I have heard in any sermon for five years. I regard 
him as the most astonishing preacher I have ever lis- 
tened, when his age, his social position, and his illiteracy 
are all considered. No pulpit in New York or Boston but 
would have been honored by such a sermon. 29 

The trip wore on and sadly Marshall must have 
known that his body just could not endure such a 
schedule. He was also disappointed at the small 
amount of support that he was able to raise. He 
was rapidly declining and had been warned that 
he must return home at once. 30 He travelled as far 
south as Richmond, Virginia, where he was ex- 
hausted and sought shelter. There he was wel- 



comed at the home of Rev. B. Manly Jr., President 
of the Richmond Female College. 31 This rest would 
not strengthen Marshall. After a month long 
struggle, the old preacher died on December 7, 
1856. 32 

The Rev. William J. Campbell, who had been 
supplying for Marshall back home, was sent to 
Richmond to accompany the body back to Savan- 
nah. 33 On Sunday, December 14, 1856, he was laid 
to rest in Laurel Grove Cemetery South. The 
location of his tomb is on Broadway Street be- 
tween Third and Fourth Avenues. 34 It is quite a 
sizeable structure and the large tomb also con- 
tains the remains of Andrew Bryan, Marshall's 
predecessor, and Henry Cunninghan who was 
pastor of Second African Baptist Church 

CHAPTER 4 The Man 

Andrew Cox Marshall was obviously a man 
who gained the confidence and trust of those 
around him. He was a leader and was ambitious 
in a time when there was little hope for advance- 
ment among the black race. 

Marshall was one of the most affluent and 
influential blacks in Savannah in the ante-bellum 
period, if not the most.. 1 He supported himself 
from his dray business and ministered to a large 
congregation made up mostly of slaves who could 
not financially support their pastor. In 1824 his 
property value was listed at $8,400 which was the 
highest value assessed to property owned by any 
black and was also ranked higher than many 
successful whites. 2 When he died in 1865, Marshall 
owned four shares of stock in the Marine and Fire 
Insurance Bank of the State of Georgia; a dray 
business with numerous wagons and horses; a 
four-wheeled carriage; a lot in the village of Saint 
Gall; and his lot in Yamacraw containing a wooden 
building, a two-story stone building and a house. 3 

Andrew Marshal was also a father and hus- 
band. His first wife, as mentioned in Chapter 2, 
was sold away from him as a slave. Sometime 
thereafter he married Rachel who died on July 17, 
1829. 4 Sarah, his third wife, was thirty-nine 
years younger than Marshall and became his wife 
shortly after Rachel's death. By his marriages, 
Marshall had twenty children, but only George, 
the youngest, would outlive his father. Jeremiah 
was born in 1819 and died in 1842 or 1843. Joseph 



Calliope 1990 J) 



was born in 1821 and worked with his father in 
the dray business. In fact, Andrew, constructing 
his will in 1852, left the dray business to Joseph. 
Joseph, however, died shortly after the will was 
written. The youngest son, George, was born in 
1832 and further information concerning him was 
not located. 5 One story said that he lived his life 
as a bachelor. 

Andrew Marshall had no education and it was 
by his own desire and ambition that he learned to 
read. His motto was, "Get wisdom, get knowl- 
edge, but with all thy getting get understanding." 6 
The Bible was his constant companion and Dr. 
Gill's Commentaries was one of his main refer- 
ences. 7 

What impresses me most about Andrew 
Marshall is that he lived his life with conviction. 
He strived to make his life count for his Creator 
who most graciously sustained him. He spent his 
life serving those were oppressed, needy, and lost. 
These are admirable characteristics which any of 
us would be proud to claim as our own. □ 

Notes 

Chapter 1 

1. J.P. Tustin, "Andrew Marshall — 1756-1856," in Annals of the 
American Pulpit or Commemorative Notices of Distinguished Ameri- 
can Clergymen of Various Denominations, cd. William B. Spraugc 
(New York: Robert Carter and Brother, I860), 6:254. 

Chapter 2 

1. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:254. 

2. Ibid. 

3. Ibid. 

4. Ibid. 

5. Ibid. 

6. Ibid. 

7. Whittington B. Johnson, "Andrew C. Marshall: A Black Relig- 
ious Leader of Antebellum Savannah." Georgian Historical Quar- 
terly 2 (Summer 1985): 177. 

8. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:254. 

9. Ibid. 

10. Ibid. 

11. Ibid. 

12. Ibid., 6:255. 

13. Ibid. 

14. Edgar Garfield Thomas, The First African Baptist Church of 
North American. 'Savannah, Georgia: By the Author, 1925), 14. 

15. E.K. Love, History of the First African Baptist Church from Its 
Organization. 'Savannah, Georgia: Savannah Morning News 
Print, 1888), 88. 

16. Johnson, Georgian Historical Quarterly, 178. 

17. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 17. 

18. Ibid., 74. 

19. James M. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church in North 
American. 'Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Co., 1888; reprint, New 
York: Negro Universities Press, 1969), 66. 

20. Johnson, Georgia Historical Quarterly , 178. 



21. Superior Court Records Room of Chatham County Courthouse. 
Savannah, Georgia. Book X, 551. 

22. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit , 6:256. 

23. Ibid. 

Chapter 3 

1. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church , 44. 

2. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church , 67-68. 

3. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church , 44. 

4. Love, History of the First African Baptist Church, 40 . 

5. Johnson, Geogrian Historical Quarterly , 179. 

6. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 76. 

7. Ibid., 77. 

8. Ibid., 78. 

9. Ibid., 79. 

10. Ibid., 82. 

11. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:259. 

12. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 47. 

13. J. Edward Moseley, Disciples of Christ in Georgia, (St. Louis, 
Missouri: The Bethany Press, 1954), 52. 

14. Ibid., 64. 

15. Ibid., 76. 

16. Gordon B. Smith, "Notes of Gordon B. Smith." Georgian 
Historical Society, Savannah Georgia. 

17. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 94. 

18. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 50. 

19. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 95. (This information 
was extracted from the "Minutes of the Sunbury Association in 
1832" in paragraphs 24-27 on page 6). 

20. Moseley, Disciples of Christ, 79. 

21. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 98. 

22. Moseley, Disciples of Christ, 80. 

23. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 119-120. 

24. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 73. 

25. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:257. 

26. Ibid. 

27. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 74. 

28. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:261. 

29. "Baptist Recorder", Frederick Douglas Paper, Rochester, New 
York: May 18, 1855), page 4, column 4. 

30. Tustin, Annals of the American Pulpit, 6:261 

31. Ibid. 

32. Tombstone of Andrew Marshall. 

33. Thomas, The First African Baptist Church, 75. 

34. Tombstone of Andrew Marshall. 

Chapter 4 

1. Wittington B. Johnson, "Free Blacks in Antebellum Savannah: 
An Economic Profile." Georgia Historical Quarterly 4 (Winter 1980): 
424. 

2. Ibid. 

3. "Will of Andrew Marshall— 1857." File M-359, Probate Court 
Records Office, Chatham Courthouse (Savannah, Georgia), 130- 
131. 

4. Tomb of Andrew Marshall. 

5. "Register of Free Persons of Color in Savannah, Georgia 1828- 
1835," Book 2. 

6. Simms, The First Colored Baptist Church, 80. 

7. Ibid. 



56 Calliope 1990 



Untitled 

Gene Lyons 

give me forty-five cents — ASS 
see you lying already. . . 

I'm hungry 
sleep right here in the PARK 

Winter? . . . Florida 
Why you ASK so many questions? 
You high? 

You look like a college boy 
Computer science huh. . . 
pay well? 

give me forty-five cents 
That's all I need. 




Casa Mia - Marius Ruja 



Calliope 1990 57 



A Friend 
In Modern British Poetry 



An Essay by 
Ron Shafer 



Modern poetry has a distinct flavor of blackness. Readers of modern British 
poetry will find themes of futility, disillusionment, loss and death, woven into the 
works. These themes embody the confusion inherent in the life of industrialized 
society. Society is a trap and life within society is, at best, difficult. Most modern 
poets would agree that, to try to escape the harshness of reality results in false- 
ness of life. We should face the adversity of life and if possible try to find some 
consolation. Consolation may often be found in modern poetry. The reader is, in 
some cases, "friend(ed)" (128) by the poet. In other cases the poet serves up 
adversity in mithridatian doses through his work. If this is done for the reader's 
own good, it can be regarded as a kind of friendship. 

A. E. Houseman gives a vigorous defense of the gloominess of his poetry. In 
"Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff" (Norton 127-128), the speaker in the first stanza 
complains bitterly about the depressing nature of Terence's poetry. Terence's 
normal activities show no acute depression or anxiety. "But oh, good Lord, the 
verse you make / It gives a chap the belly-ache" (5-6). The speaker has no desire 

58 Calliope 1990 



"To hear such tunes as killed the cow" (10). He 
goes even further. "Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme/ 
Your friends to death before their time" (11-12). 
The speaker demands to know what sort of friend 
would make others endure such dismal poetry. 

Terence (and Houseman in my opinion), re- 
plies by telling the speaker that he should drink if 
he doesn't want to face reality. There are enough 
people who are not linclined to face reality that 
"...hop-yards..." (17); even entire towns, 
"...Burton.. .on Trent" (18), have been built to fuel 
the escapism of the day. Terence warns, however, 
that if one follows this path he will "...see the 
world as the world's not" (26). Truth and adver- 
sity are close friends. Truth cannot be had with- 
out adversity and adversity brings truth with it. 
Further, escape is a transitory happiness. "The 
mischief is that 'twill not last" (28). 

Terence speaks from experience. "Oh I have 
been to Ludlow Fair/And left my necktie God 
knows where" (29-30). He managed to side-step 
reality. Hardship vanished and he saw himself 
"...a sterling lad" (34). Truth, however, always 
finds cracks and seeps its way to walled up 
senses. "The world, it was the old world yet/I was 
I, my things were wet" (38-39). Shutting the ill out 
becomes more trouble than enduring it. 

The advice offered in the poem appears in the 
third stanza. There is good in the world, but much 
more virulence than good. Therefore, prepare for 
the bad. If one "train(s) for ill..."L (47), then the 
good will be fresh and unexpected. Also, any 
hardship endured over time will become a mere 
normality as time goes on. Terence says, read my 
poetry. Yes, it is "sour" (53), but it will help you 
prepare for the "...embittered hour" (54). The 
stanza ends with "And I will friend you, if I may,/ 
In the dark and cloudy day." 

Houseman states that his poetry is intended in 
many cases to be a quiet preparation for life. 
Through his poetry Houseman can sympathize 
and help the reader to muddle through. He sug- 
gests that his darker poems are mithridatian 
doses of harshness. The reader can absorb them 
and build up a resistance to life's adversity. 

Terence is the case in point illustrating that 
the poet, through his poetry, can help the reader 
prepare for the storm and stand with the reader 
through the storm. In most modern poetry this 
theme treads subtly past the reader's eyes. In "I 



Found Her Out There" by Thomas I lardy (Norton, 
pp. 79-80), we find the usual modern themes: 
death, separation, bereavement. The poem still 
consoles the reader. 

As the poem opens we are confronted with a 
woman standing on a "slope" enjoying the fury of 
the wind and the sea. The image is a romantic 
and pleasant one with waves driven onto the 
"purple strand" (6) by the "salt-edged" (4) wind. 
The second stanza begins with her death. We find 
that she is not only separated from the sea by 
death, but she is separated from it geographically 
as well. She has been buried inland. 

She will never be stirred 
In her loamy cell 
By the waves long heard 
And loved so well. (13-16) 

Hardy makes a point of establishing with us the 
love this woman has for her spot overlooking the 
sea, where she can interact with the sea's power 
and participate in its beauty. He wants us to feel 
her separation, her longing. 

Once we feel the longing, the solitude, then 
Hardy can befriend and console us. 

Yet her shade, maybe, 

Will creep underground 

Till it catch the sound 

Of the Western sea 

As it swells and sobs 

Where she once domiciled. 

And joy in its throbs 

With the heart of a child. (33-40) 

The narrator hopes the woman can somehow 
leave "her loamy cell" and move underground to 
the edge of the sea. He hopes she doesn't have to 
endure a longing sleep separated from that which 
she loves so deeply. 

I believe Hardy reminds us that adversity will 
make us feel as the woman feels. He prepares us 
for the hardships life casts at us by making us feel 
as she feels. But then he "friend(s)" us. Hardy 
hopes that we, like the woman, can overcome 
adversity. He wants us to be near that which we 
love, not separated by futility, not alone. He 
sympathizes with us, hopes for us, consoles us. 

We find a slightly different emphasis on this 
theme in "Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop" 
(Norton, 178-9) by W.B.Yeats. Jane is approach- 
ing the winter of her life, has dealt with hardship 
throughout her life, and has triumphed over it. 
She is also, shall we say, an earthy character. The 
Bishop urges her to change her ways, to "Live in 



Calliope 1990 59 



a heavenly mansion" (5). Jane will have none of it. 

Jane replies to the Bishop, "Fair and foul are 
near of kin/And fair needs foul..." (7-8). She 
speaks of life as a cruel teacher. One learns most 
in baseness and misery. Then in the next stanza, 
"Love has pitched his mansion in/The place of the 
excrement"! 15-16). God has put us here where we 
wallow in the muck of life. This, needless to say, 
is an ugly outlook on life. 

We have the hope of triumph over life as Jane 
does in the closing lines of the poem. "For nothing 
can be sole or whole/ That has not been rent" (17- 
18). Yeats, through the voice of Jane, tells us, as 
did Houseman and Hardy in the previous poems, 
that good and evil, peace and adversity are closely 
related. One cannot exist without the other, just 



as Terence stated. We cannot experience the fair 
in life without the contrast of ill. Nothing in life 
can be "whole" without the existence of the possi- 
bility of being torn. 

Yeats "friend(s)" us by telling us that we can 
experience the good in life by contrasting it with 
the bad and thus better appreciate the good. Also, 
through overcoming pain, we become stronger 
and better able to deal with worse pain. Hardy 
hopes for us and sympathizes with us in our pain. 
All three give us doses of gloominess and pain in 
order to prepare us for the pain encountered in 
life. These three poets and their works are ex- 
amples of the modern British literature which 
will help us prepare for the storm and then stand 
with us while it rages. □ 




Untitled - K. Burke 



60 Calliope 1990 




7££h/ 





73,97 



Volume Eight 
Spring 1991 



Armstrong State College 
A Unit of the University System of Georgia 



—"«—"■■ 




Editor: Don Robinson 
Associate Editor: Christina M. Cadle 
Associate /Layout Editor: Ron Speir, Jr. 
Art Coordinator: John Schmidt, M.F.A. 
Art Photographer: Laura Beth Cohen 

Faculty Advisors: Dr. Richard C. Raymond 

Dr. Carol Andrews 
Dr. James Smith 



Calliope is published annually in the spring by and for the students of Armstrong State College. 
While student work is given first priority, submissions by faculty and staff of Armstrong State College 
are accepted for consideration by the editors. Calliope is designed to reflect the talents and interests of 
the student body of Armstrong State College. Consideration is given to work done in all the disciplines 
on campus. 

Calliope is produced entirely by students on a Macintosh desktop publishing system. Submissions 
arc accepted through fall quarter and should be placed in Armstrong's Writing Center or mailed to: 

» 
Calliope 

Department of Languages, Literature and Dramatic Arts 

Armstrong State College 

l L935Abercorn Street 

Savannah, Georgia 31419-1997 



Printed by Atlantic Printing 
on recycled paper 




Cypress Giants 

Prayer for Tomorrow's Child 

America the Beautiful 

Peace? 

In Extremis 

A Symbol of Pride 

Last Wish 

Dream Epiphany 

Myn Kleine Baby 

Childish Games 

The Fight 

The Fortuitous 

Spaces 

The Creation of Hell 

Virgin at the Foot of the Cross 

Riverfront 

I Am Tired 

Unaware of the Missing 

Ethiopia's Child 

On Borrowed Time 

Fool's Gold 

Mannequin 

Sailing 

An Aubade 

Artists Passing in the Street 

Trestles 

Papa 

Life Goes On (For my Father) 

Solitary Confinement 

The Comrade Griffith Show 

To Those Who Were 

Kentucky Oak 



Michael Gadomski 5 

Don Newman 6 

Joe Hul 7 

Margaret Vishneski 7 

JHP 8 

gene lyons 9 

Christina M. Cadle 10 

Don Robinson 13 

Marjan Nieuwenhuie 13 

Ethel Butler Tattle 14 

J.L. Wineinger 15 

Vikram Kapur 16 

Adrian 16 

Brad Squibb 17 

Brad Squibb 17 

Michael Gadomski 18 

Elaine Hall 18 

Craig Kozlowski 19 

Ron Speir, Jr. 19 

Elaine Hall 20 

Don Robinson 21 

Mimi Georges 23 

Cecilia Morett 24 

Vikram Kapur 24 

Christi Manley 25 

Ron Speir, Jr. 26 

Elaine Hall 30 

Marguerite Dismukes 30 

Laura Beth Cohen 31 

Brad Squibb 32 

Heather Mitzi Crow 34 

Cory Hill 34 



Descending Liquid 


Craig Kozlowski 


34 


The Drunk and the Poet 


Vikram Kapur 


35 


Far Cry from McDonald's 


BJ English 


37 


Meet Me at Night 


Dina Vogel 


38 


The Piano 


Wende K. Carver 


38 


From the Mouths of Babes 


Christi Manley 


39 


The Debate 


Gayle Whitaker 


40 


Reach Out 


Robbie 


41 


Speechless 


Don Newman 


42 


Brittany 


Mary Robinson 


42 


Just As I Am 


R. Glenn Moscoso 


43 


My Corner 


Suzane Wiggins 


43 


True Love 


Christi Manley 


43 


War Memories 


Lisette de Groot 


44 


The Blood of Nature 


Ron Speir, Jr. 


48 


Oak Tree with View 


Joe Hul 


48 


The Ocean 


MED 


49 


In Spite of Friendship 


Bonnie Payne 


49 


Out 


Gayle Whitaker 


50 


Loved One 


Tina Miles 


51 


Laying Waste to 






an American Generation 


Russell Jones 


52 


It's Only Quiet If You're Not Listening 


Deb Domako 


54 


A Contradiction 


JHP 


54 


The Proper Utility 


Tim Gill 


55 


Liquification 


Tim Gill 


55 


Joe Christmas 






Hero of Light in August and Beyond. . . 


Christina M. Cadle 


56 



Cover Photo 
The Human Progression — Laura Beth Cohen 



Here 




Cypress Giants — Michael Gadomski 

"Bitter? Man, I'm a volcano. Bitter? 
Here I am a giant — surrounded by ants. . . 
who can't. . .understand what. . .the giant 
is talking about." 



Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun 



7S>sv jr 



Prayer For Tomorrow's Child 

I pray that you will never know 
A hurt like that within my soul, 
A hungry day, a lonely night, 
Or ever have to see the sight 
Of oil washed upon your shores 
Or the horrible reality of wars. 

I pray that you won't have to feel 
A desperation that makes you steal 
Or a hopelessness which makes you shrug, 
"SO WHAT! WHO CARES?" 
Because you've never had a hug. 

May you never know the aches of heart, 

When love was crushed and then could not start 

Again. 

I pray for you so innocent, 
Yearning to experience 
Life, that you won't have to be 
Like some who've come before, 
Who for a dollar shut heaven's door 
To make a mockery of Freewill. 

May you bring Hope and never kill 
The joy of peace, the peace of Love. 
Then never will you fear the shroud 
Of a homeless night, or a mushroom cloud. 

Don Newman 



G ^adks/ie 7&&f 




THE MELTING-POT 
RELEASES MORE 
SLUDGE 







i 

vf / >• ^ *uix Fi WOPS ^Hi%Aa 



• 5Jc» 



v» ul 



America the Beautiful — Joe Hul 




Peace? — Margaret Vishneski 



C toaJ&c>/ie 7S>&7 / 



In Extremis 

You know 

I thought the South 

Was certain death 

And 

To settle there would be 

My piercing grave. 

Of dirt roads and 

Laggard speech I would seek 

An existence 

A niche 

Among the barefoot and 

Backward I would 

Strain to find. 

You know 

I imagined 

I'd flee the South 

Leave them all in burning 

Hell. 

But now I laugh 

Because I know 

I've grown 

And the South is no longer 

My morbid dream. 

JHP 



<$ ^aJ&o/ie 73.97 



A Symbol of Pride 

Greed for oil, power personal and stately 

Is the breeze that keeps it flying highest. 

Hand over hand it's raised 

By myopic military nationalists who twist words 

As the global policeman spins his baton. 

Panama — home of the strategic canal. 

Kuwait — home of offshore drilling rights. 

"Don't tread on me" 

We'll inflict a jungle raid 

Or perhaps a desert storm. 

Rally 'round, rally 'round, rally 'round 

Just don't let its bronze tip and spangled cloth touch ground. 

Red — the color of civilian blood spilt for unjust causes with secret ulterior motives. 
White — the color of the race that sends its minority-filled forces to war. 
Blue — the color of the skin of a rotting warrior (husband, father) 

fallen for misguided beliefs — "an effective way to jump start the economy." 

Rally 'round, rally 'round, rally 'round 

Bring the whole clan to the county playground. 

Stars and bars and purple hearts for those who play their parts. 

Stripes — Thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, the time honored numerology of Death. 

Old Glory signals for the conscientious a new state of heaving nausea. 

Rally 'round, rally 'round, rally 'round 
Burn the goddamn thing to the ground. 

A million miniatures waving in every government-fearing hand. 

It's a soldier's job to kill his fellow man. 

A tear falls from the eye of God. 

Is this really 

A symbol of pride? 

gene lyons 



C &zJ&?/ie 73>£tf 3 



/rCTtVt&b CM? C</ie> <^£cdfccZ7V t-S/l&TlC&b S&cchzac/ 

fen rfn& J^OeaJ /rotA? en, (3cz4&?/£& 



Last Wish 

Christina M. Cadle 



Julia Burns wanted to die. 

Lying among the yellowing sheets of her hospital bed, Julia could think of 
nothing else — or rather she tried not to. But there were always distractions, bringing 
her mind to dwell on other things, like her questionable life. 

First there were the interruptions of the staff. They checked her temperature, 
took tubes of blood, and emptied the bag at her bedside that was a constant reminder 
of her embarrassing helplessness. And the questions. Always the same questions 
about how she was feeling — making it impossible for her to ignore the screams 
sounding from her brittle bones or the painful pounding feelings in her body. Purple 
bruises left by too many probing needles covered both of her wrists, further attesting 
to their futile attempts to "save" her. She wished they would leave her alone. 

And of course there were the visits. They all came — loving her, blessing her, 
pitying her. Julia hated these visits the most, partly because her family was less adept 
at hiding their disgust than the medical people — but mostly because they reminded 
her she was no longer living; she had stopped living long ago. But at least they didn't 



70 C (ou^o^o 7S&7 



come as often now, and they had stopped bringing 
her grandchildren altogether. Julia knew it was 
because she scared them. Hell, she even scared 
herself. She was only an alien shell of the woman she 
once was, hardly human at all. She understood that 
she no longer looked like Wife, Mother or Grandma 
at all. With all the machinery attached to her, 
combined with the smell of death that hung around 
her like an old, thick, black cloak, timeworn and 
motheaten, she thought she was enough to scare the 
devil. 

She remembered the last time she visited her 
grandmother. She was only five, but the memory 
was strong even now. She never forgot the smell of 
her grandmother, a smell that permeated her entire 
house, a mixture of cooking odors and the ammonia 
she used to clean everything. She remembered her 
grandmother gathering her in her fleshy arms, and 
the old, too organic smell flooded Julia's nose, mak- 
ing her feel smothered and sick. The gummy smile 
and medicine-soaked breath came to her now, and 
Julia recalled that was the day she decided she 
would never grow old. She almost laughed at the 
thought, then quickly pushed it away. It's not funny, 
she thought, leaning back to blink away the gather- 
ing tears. It's not funny at all. 

Julia pushed her chin to her chest and looked 
down at her body, which barely made a discernable 
bulge underneath the sheets. She didn't need to lift 
the cover to know the ugliness that decayed under- 
neath. The womanly curves, the softness, the warm 
roundness of her body, all were gone now, replaced 
by some as yet unnamed figure. Still, she felt 
strangely comforted by the swelled and twistedjoints 
and the bluish tint of her skin. She smiled vaguely 
as she decided it wouldn't be much longer. 

At first she had fought death. When they told 
her the cancer had spread through her body, Julia 
had been angry, bitterly laughing and crying as she 
shoved the doctor away. She had clung to her 
family's visits then, always wanting them to stay 
longer. But not anymore. Soon enough she realized 
that they were waiting for her to die, that her slow 
degeneration was hurting them, hurting their lives. 
She discovered the visits were born out of guilt and 
riddled with fear and even anger. And Julia began 
to hate them. She loved their memory while she 



despised their faces and everything she saw re- 
flected there. Julia wished she could leave them just 
as much as they wished she would hurry up and go: 
she was too tired now to love them, to care for them, 
to listen to them, to even like them. No, she was 
finished with all that now. 

Still, they kept coming, seemingly unable to 
realize they were prolonging her departure. She had 
tried to explain it to them once, to tell them about her 
dreams for death. She told them she couldn't sleep; 
even though she grew more and more tired, sleep 
never came. When she closed her eyes, the funny 
little designs like the ones that follow a camera flash 
were there to keep her up. She told them she couldn't 
eat either; the feel of the warm, squishy food in her 
mouth sickened her. And she couldn't live anymore. 
They just stared at her. 

What she couldn't tell them was that she 
needed them to go and never come back, so finally 
she could rest. She looked at their tired faces and 
sad, slumping figures, and instinct urged her to 
comfort, to soothe away their confusion and fright. 
But she pushed them away from her — she couldn't 
let them hold her any longer. She didn't belong with 
them anymore. They couldn't understand this, 
though . . . and Julia couldn't tell them. She sighed 
raspily now, and wished, hoped they would figure it 
out. 

Soon, she thought, let it be soon. 

Julia tried to shift positions, cursing the 
tubes and needles taped onto her body as they 
impeded her progress. I'm just too damned tired, she 
thought, tired of everything. And, as if to accentuate 
her mute words, the slow drilling in her belly began 
again, twisting her insides around some deepening 
hole there. Weary of fighting the pain, Julia waited 
quietly for it to pass, and waited for the time when 
pain wouldn't matter. 

She thought again of her family. Julia knew 
they only came to make themselves feel better. They 
didn't really want to see her, not like this. Except 
Marie. Marie kept coming, encouraging her not to 
lose hope. Julia knew Marie was the one who would 
miss her — and that's why she wished Marie would 
stay away. 

Marie had come again this morning. Beauti- 
ful Marie. She appeared for her weekly visit, duti- 



^aJ&o/ie 7£Stf 77 



fully attending the shrinking flesh and bone that 
held her mother. Marie didn't seem to notice the 
traitorous tricks Julia's body had played on her; the 
patches of missing hair, toothless mouth, and decay- 
ing features failed to capture her daughter's atten- 
tion. Julia wished Marie would notice and perhaps 
be sickened enough not to return, for Julia dreaded 
her visits and the pain that followed them. Her jaw 
still ached from the forced smiles, and her head 
pounded from the army of memories that marched 
through her head the minute Marie arrived. And 
there was the unexplainable tenderness that filled 
her chest and moved up her throat to choke her every 
time Marie left. 

Julia struggled to push Marie from her 
thoughts, squinting against the white light pouring 
through her window. Marie always left the damn 
curtains open, unaware of how the sun made the 
eerie green walls glow — and the smell — the sunlight 
made the smell worse. Swirls of Lysol and urine, 
now more powerful after being heated by the sun. 
swam around her, making her dizzy. Julia pulled 
the over-used sheets over her nose and eyes and 
begged for rest. 

But Marie was there, giggling, "Look Mama, 
look at me!" Cartwheeling through the grass, 



squealing at the bugs that followed her romp. Marie 
wouldn't let Julia sleep. "Mama . . . Mama .... 
MAMA . . . watch me!" Chubby legs and cropped, 
curly hair bounced and twisted through fumbled 
somersaults. 

It's so hot — too hot — Julia thought, loosening 
her blouse. And then a tired Marie piled onto her lap, 
her sweaty little body adding to the heat pressing 
into Julia's skin, pounding through her veins. The 
sun pushed her eyelids down, away from the light, 
and the hot air teased her smoldering body. Julia 
settled back and waited for sleep. 

The squiggly body in her lap scared the sleep 
away. Julia tried to ignore the movements — until 
something wet touched her eye and tickled down her 
cheek. She peeked at Marie, whose pudgy fingers 
were patiently peeling the skin from an orange, the 
punctures her fingers made in the fruit sending 
missiles of sweet liquid onto Julia's face. 

Mmmmmmm . . . Julia murmured as the next 
drops hit her lips. Her tongue moved, too slow to 
catch them, and they slid untasted down her chin. 
Her tired jaw relaxed and her lips parted as she 
exhaled, releasing a river of spittle that mixed with 
salty tears to chase the liquid orange to her pillow. 

Finally, Julia slept. 



72 



(oo/cco^g 



79.97 



Dream Epiphany 

An impregnable blackness. Totally devoid of color, depth, or sound. 

Then — a tiny ghost-white spot. Starkly silhouetted against the darkness like 
a dot on a domino. I'm not sure it exists— 

until it moves. 

Twisting, turning, contorting, — it creeps out of the crevices of my subconscious. 

It moves. 

Slowly — menacingly — somewhat mockingly, 

it crowds out the darkness, 

forcing me to acknowledge its existence. Making me question 

its intrusion into my sleep world. Wanting me to admit my guil — 

and then it stops. 

Dead center in my mind. 
A baby-sized bundle of bloody rags. 

Before I can understand, 
The echoes of a dying baby's screams jar me into consciousness. 

Don Robinson 




Myn Kleine Baby — 

Marjan Nieuwenhuie 



Childish Games 

Watch as the children gather every day, 

A few will lead, most follow, some stand by, 
Their futures shaped by the childish games they play. 

Daycare workers stuck on little pay, 

Change the babies busy Mothers kiss good-bye, 
And watch the children gather every day. 

The bully caught with out-stretched fist will say, 

"He hit me first!" though all can see the lie, 
Their futures shaped by the childish games they play. 

Burned-out teachers reaching for the end of May, 

Hear the morning bell and heave a deep sigh 
To watch the children gather every day. 

Students dreaming all week long of Saturday, 

Don't realize how the months, then years will fly, 
Their futures shaped by the childish games they play. 

Policemen at the bloody scene will pray 

This murdered child the last this week to die. 
Watch as the children gather every day, 
Their futures shaped by the childish games they play. 

Ethel Butler Tuttle 



74 ^adkyie 7£&f 



The Fight 

On a bicycle down by the railroad tracks, 
he whips out his frustrations, pedaling wildly as 
the dust flies up from his spinning wheels, when 
suddenly — 

he is stuck in the sand. 
The wheels grind deeper, 
every hard-fought inch 
only traps him in a deeper grave, 
his face scrunches up in concentrated determination, 
his knuckles white as he grips the handlebars fiercely, 
his body taut even as he totters. . . 
then, 
with a final jerk — 

he is released, 
weeds closing around him as he fades into the pink sunset. 

At a kitchen table in their one-bedroom apartment, 
she clunks down a half-empty bottle with a thud, 
scattering crumbs across the formica surface, when 
from the far corner — 

a baby wails in protest. 
The chair scrapes backward, 
she lifts the glass 
and downs the Southern Comfort 
in one quick gulp, 
her face blank of any expression, 
her eyes vague, unfocused, watering from the sting, 
her body sways as she stumbles 
then, 
with a gentle scoop — 

she presses the child against her, 
shadows shrouding her as she stares out into the pink sunset. 

J.L. Wineinger 



^3aJ6ccfe& 



7£&7 7S 



The Fortuitous 

The phalanx of greatness is replete with names 

Of men who entered early graves 

Leaving the mortal few who lived 

To wonder what more they had to give. 

What could they have done if they had lived 
Any differently from those who lived; 
They too with time would have grown old, 
And lost that air that seemed so bold. 

Fortuitous were those who went in their prime 
For they live on in people's minds, 
And those who stayed to get the gray look 
Languish within dusty history books. 

Vikram Kapur 



Spaces 

I talked to this guy 

He was dying 

and he asks me why. 

I say, I don't know man. 

Please don't burden me 

with your memories. 

I have no spaces left 

in which to put them. 

Ah! Says he. 

I'm not looking for a savior 

just the favor 

of a smile from a friendly face 

as I have but one space 

left, yet to fill. 

Adrian 



fG ^ioczJ&o/iG 79.97 




The Creation of Hell— Brad Squibb 




Virgin at the Foot of the 
Cross by Eugene Carriere — 

Acrylic Copy by Brad Squibb 



^altfy/ze 7£&f 7/ 




Riverfront — Michael Gadomski 



I Am Tired 



I am tired. 

Tired of being afraid of my fellow-man: 

Of oil explorations and oil spills: 

Tired of pollution (and being part of the 

problem): 
Of dead sea turtles, drowned dolphins, 

slaughtered whales and clubbed seal pups: 
Tired of the destruction of the rain forest 

and global warming: 
Of nuclear power, dammed rivers, and industrial 

waste: 
Tired of chemicals: in my food, my water, the 

very air that I breathe: 
Of people stacked on people and racial 

disputes: 
Tired of apathy, greed, and human supremacy: 

But most of all — I am tired of being tired. 

Elaine Hall 



78 



^5a<6fccfee 



7SA97 



Unaware of the Missing 

unaware of the missing pieces, 

the children cry 
in the distant sunset, 

weighed heavily upon 
by the winds of time. 

splintered hopes lay quietly 

resting, 
fragmented dreams 

swept away, 
the glimmering cheeks of the children 

cooled by the wind 
then fade... 

Craig Kozlowski 



Ethiopia's Child 

An imploded stomach 

Hides 
Under a small T-shirt, 

A frail thumb 
Sticks 
Between two thin lips, 

And puffy eyelids 
Fall 
Over the brown eyes 
Of the starving baby, 

Captured by sleep, 

To dream of his dead mother's milk. 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



^adbo/ie 7££V 73 



On Borrowed Time 

On borrowed time 

we live our lives 
upon a whim 

all may die 
The dogs of war 

shall eat the flesh 
The four who ride 

will take the rest — 

to sacrifice upon the altar 

in worship to the God of power 
and anointed with the oozing oil, 
consecrated blood that boils. 

Millions cry, 

though none take heed 
of the nameless, faceless hordes 
it seems — 
as if in righteous anger wrought 
the silencing of the lessons taught 
by those who before us found 
the virtues we so expound 
are a cruel veneer 

to hide the truth 
that peace is just 

an excuse for war. 

Elaine Hall 



20 ^aJ&o/iv 7S>&? 



Fool's Gold 

You leave town at the first sign of spring for a Sierra Mountain trail. 
And you walk to places where other men have tried to go, 
but where other men have failed. 

You're high up in the mountains, with the clouds around your feet, 
Shivering with the cold, as you anticipate what you seek. 

You dig down deep to find the strength to struggle with one more ton. 

And you know that death is creeping closer, when your day is done. 

You're running on empty, as you start to feel like your life's blood has been spent. 

Then it's a day too late when you get to wondering where your future went. 



And that's just about the time you'll hear those mountains, 
Laughing down at you. 



There have been many good men lost up there in those hills. 
And the late night campfire stories, fill you full of chills. 
Each nightfall brings a thousand dancing prospectors' souls, 
Condemned men still searching for their fortunes made of gold. 

It's been this way since times forgotten, men want to get rich fast. 
So they rape the earth and scar its soul, but nature laughs last. 
They tear the heart out of the earth, never caring about its needs. 
A man loses his perspective when he's overcome by greed. 



And that's just about the time you'll hear those mountains, 
Laughing down at you. 

Don Robinson 



^aJ&ofie 7&S7 2/ 



^ c tS^y^ ^0^ 



There 




Mannequin — Mimi Georges 

"I almost love you 

but would have cast, I know, 

the stones of silence." 

Seamus Heaney, "Punishment" 



C t^^b/i^ 7S>*97 &3 



Sailing 

When the lenient wind blows 

I think of the summer day 
I was at the helm when it 
tickled the sails with steamy, 
salty air as it pushed us up 
the Skidaway River. 

It was the same day 

the mischievous wind made the 
waves spit spray on us, while 
whitecaps frolicked across 
the wavetops that pulled the bow 
deep into the Vernon River. 

I fought the tiller that July day 

the wind turned wild and the 
bow shook water over us again 
and again as she wrestled to 
be free of the swells. 

Not storm winds, just wicked winds 

as Nature, cat-like, flexed her claws. 

And I in reverence, not fear, 

was glad I was at the helm to greet 

the lenient wind 

and the mischievous wind 

and the wild wind 

that summer day. 

Cecilia Morett 



An Aubade 

The sky lies below a blanket of haze 

As the night's cover is lifted by sunrise. 

The waking sun will light the darkened shades 

And you will rise groaning, rubbing your eyes — 

And break my embrace when they see clearly. 

I will follow and beg for one last kiss. 

You will refuse — raise brows and say, "Really," 

But just before leaving press lips on lips. 

I will wander onto the round terrace 

And water roses that stand in earthen pots; 

The morning breeze will drift against my face 

And cool the cheeks the warming sun makes hot. 

The roses release more fragrance under sunlight; 

But somehow if I could arrest the night. . . 



Vikram Kapur 



24 



^ladtecfec 



7£&7 



Artists Passing in the Street 

On a cool, dry day in the city, 

I saw my reflection as I passed 

a mountain of a thousand mirrors. 

They're built that way, you know, 

in an attempt to make those outside feel ashamed 

to be so casually out in the breezes, 

while the jaded, paraded masses within slave away, 

near-choking, on the silk nooses they choose to wear. 

Anyway, as I walked along, ignoring 

the distorted image of myself 

which gladly conformed to every reflective corner, 

I glanced up and caught sight of another. 

He, too, was enjoying the cross-signals changing 

so that we alone could walk. 

Times before, I'd seen him at places 

where works of art gather themselves. 

Also, while the remainder of humanity 

confined itself to the glass towers, 

I'd spotted him roaming the streets for inspiration, 

as did I. 

So on that late winter's day, we nodded, 

each toward the other, silent acknowledgement 

that we were prisoners of another world. . . . 

But for the unreflected souls, peering down 

from their shimmering, forty-story jails, 

those must have seemed to be the glances 

of passing royalty. 

A king and queen of leisure, 

Companions of the night, 

Artists passing in the street. 

Christi Manley 



vjadtecfee- 



7£&7 &5 



Trestles 

Ron Speir, Jr. 



I didn't eat lunch that day. It was Thursday. 

The photography class I was taking for extra-credit my senior year of high school 
met on Thursdays, and we had an assignment due — our first "perfect" prints were to 
be made. 

I met a classmate at the photography lab at 12:30. Since we had two free periods 
following lunch, our schedules allowed us to work uninterrupted until the 3:30 
photography class. We took advantage of this unusually large block of lab time, and 
we were becoming good photographers because of these extra hours. 

I made a few prints, trying to decide which picture I wanted to concentrate on and 
slave over in doing the assignment. Finally, I decided. This picture would become the 
best I've ever done and always hold a deep meaning within its silver and black tones. 

It was a picture of train tracks on Hutchinson Island. One rail emerged from each 
of the lower corners of the picture, converging into a train track. Raccoon or possum 
footprints walked down the rails and cross-ties, leaving a trail in the creosote. Trees, 
bearing new leaves with the coming spring, bordered the clearing the tracks cut down 
the middle of the small island. In the distance the rails split into four parallel tracks 
that continued to stretch out, disappearing in a gray haze. 

26 ^aJ&oAv 7.9SS7 



I worked on the picture for almost four hours. 
When I finally developed the perfect print, I devel- 
oped one extra. I wanted to give the photograph to 
my grandfather, Henry Lee Speir, Jr. He owned a 
company that built train bridges and had liked an 
earlier picture of train tracks I had taken — a less 
perfect picture. 

Granddaddy formed Coastal Wrecking and Con- 
struction Company in 1971. At first the company 
only wrecked things, salvaging the scrap for a good 
profit, but one day by accident Granddaddy found 
himself stuck with a contract to build what he had 
been tearing down — a train bridge. That accident 
led to a hard life of spending weeks in the middle of 
Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina woods battling 
gnats, heat, cold, rain, and time to build one train 
bridge after the other. When he chose to come home 
for a weekend, he would come home on a Friday 
night and be back to the job site Sunday night. Since 
he was always working, I never really saw him for 
long periods of time, until right before his death. 

One Sunday when I was twelve he asked if I 
wanted to go for a ride. I knew that he really just 
wanted to go to Dairy Queen. "I'll go," I said, acting 
like it was I who wanted to go get a banana split, 
"only if we can go by the D.Q." 

"O.K.," he replied with a gleam in his eye. 
As we rode through downtown Savannah, he 
broke his usually modest ways and shared a proud 
secret with me. "I built that train bridge," he said, 
stopping the truck near a train trestle. Continuing 
on, he pointed out another bridge. As we rode past 
the tallest downtown building, the Desoto Hilton, he 
stated, "I tore down the Old Desoto, the one that was 
there before this one." 

Even though he was only stating facts, he acted 
like he had told me a secret. He had taken me into 
his confidence and shared a part of himself with me. 
His modest, introverted shell did not allow him to do 
this often, but on that day, he revealed his whole world 
to me — his work. 

The next summer, I went with my dad out to 
Garden City where Granddaddy was building a 
train bridge unusually close to home. I saw him work 
for the first time. At that young age, I was impressed 
by his command over thirty men. He had them 
running from one side of the bridge to the other, 
moving cross-ties, lowering cranes, and everything 



else imaginable. I was amazed. A few years later 
when I worked for him for a month, I realized that his 
job was harder than I had ever suspected, and he 
worked others hard. The men worked as hard as he 
demanded, and they didn't complain about the dawn 
to dusk hours or the consecutive long weeks of 
working without a day off. He ran his business with 
a strict hand, but he rewarded those loyal men and 
bailed them out of trouble whenever they needed his 
help. He worked hard, the same dawn to dusk hours, 
and he expected others to work hard also. When I 
worked for him, I was not his grandson, but just 
another employee. I learned what hard work was. 

I rushed home with the intent of eating a quick 
supper and taking the picture to his house. He would 
be getting home from two weeks in the Alabama 
woods where he was currently working, taking an 
unusual Friday off since it was Easter weekend. 

When I drove into the driveway, my younger 
brother came running out of the house. "Granddaddy 
Speir is dead," he hurried to tell me. "He had a heart 
attack and died." 

I managed to walk into the house. As I sat down, 
the phone rang, and my Dad told me what he knew. 
Granddaddy had just eaten lunch. He backed a truck 
up to the work site, got out, walked around to let the 
tailgate down, and collapsed. He died at the age of 
sixty-three of a massive heart attack before he even 
hit the ground. He died while I made that photo- 
graph for him. 

The suddenness shocked the family. After the 
many years of hard work leading up to the perfect 
retirement, all his efforts had gone for nothing. 

Looking at his body in the funeral home, I felt a 
weird nausea sweep over me. I was partly stunned 
by the fact that I could look at the body. The gray suit 
he wore made his face look brighter than it was, and 
the pale smile was forced, not the natural smile 
rarely seen on his lips. The large coffin made his thin 
five-eight frame look even smaller than when he 
stood next to me. His closed eyes looked naked 
without his wire rimmed glasses framing them. I 
wondered if the glasses were tucked inside his well- 
worn glasses case inside his coat pocket. Before, I 
could never bring myself to look at a dead person, no 
matter who it was. But I looked at him, and it wasn't 
the Granddaddy that I had come to know just re- 



^a&o/ie 73>&f 2/ 



centiy. I remembered how he smiled that smile 
when he ate his Frosted Flakes. 

Actually, he never called them Frosted Flakes. 
"Mama, we're runnin' low on Tony Tigers," he would 
tell Grandma, hinting for her to buy some more 
Frosted Flakes. Every morning he would sit there 
and eat a bowl while reading the paper and drinking 
coffee. Occasionally he would slip an extra spoonful 
of sugar on top of the cereal, and other times he 
would settle on some fruit that my grandma offered. 
Back then I didn't think anything odd about a 
granddaddy eating Frosted Flakes. 

He never really smiled much. For the longest 
time one of the only smiles of his that I knew was 
from a photograph of him at ten years old standing 
next to Henry Ford and looking up with a schoolboy 
smile to see a similar smile. 

Only a few months earlier I had finally earned a 
smile from him. I was in a play at school, Waiting for 
Lefty by Clifford Odets. The night before the opening 
during dress rehearsal, I severely sprained my ankle 
and had to have it placed in a cast. The next night, 
after keeping the ankle iced and elevated all day, I 
managed to hobble smoothly around the stage. I was 
so good that many people in the audience didn't 
realize I had a cast on my foot, my doctor included, 
until the reception afterwards. At the play, 
Granddaddy smiled, "Nice play." I don't know if it 
was because I was bold enough to stand in front of all 
those people — something he would never do. He was 
uncomfortable saying grace before dinner to a large 
group of people, even if they were all friends. Or 
maybe my stoic performance impressed him. Either 
way, he smiled that schoolboy smile. 

But I later coaxed a bigger smile out of him when 
I asked him about Georgia Tech. He graduated from 
Tech in 1950, the first member of his family to 
graduate from college, and every year since, he 
would go to one football game. And every year I 
received a new Georgia Tech souvenir: a pennant, a 
stuffed yellow jacket, a seat cushion, a mug, a pro- 
gram, and on and on. But the day when I told him I 
wanted to go to Tech, his eyes lit up like I've never 
seen. "Good," he said in his most excited voice. 
Never mind that I wanted to be a computer science 
major and not an engineer — he wanted someone to 
carry on the Tech legacy. I le even offered to help pay 
for college when he heard that finances might keep 



me from going there. It was so important to him that 
someone in the family go to Tech that I began 
wondering how he ever let his youngest daughter, 
his last child with a chance to go to Tech, go to the 
University of Georgia. After he died, the enthusiasm 
I had for going to Tech died. I settled on another 
school. 

I took one last look at his smiling face before I 
walked out of the funeral home, remembering the 
final time I saw him smile. My grandparents let me 
hold an oyster roast at the house one cool day the fall 
before he died, my senior year of high school. It was 
the weekend before homecoming, and the party was 
to plan the senior class homecoming activities in a 
social atmosphere. Even with all the oyster roasts 
and low country boils I had been to at Granddaddy's, 
and all the times I watched him prepare the main 
seafood dish, I never saw him as happy as he was 
that day steaming open oysters, throwing them out 
on a long table covered with newspaper, and helping 
seventeen year old girls learn how to open an oyster 
that didn't want to open. I never saw him smile any 
bigger, except in a photograph in one of my grandma's 
photo albums where he is holding me — his first 
grandson — in his arms for the first time. I don't 
know why he was so happy that fall day. Maybe it 
was his dreaming about his first grandson being the 
first family member to follow him to Georgia Tech. 
Everyone in the family noticed how happy he was. 

A year after he died, he and I became closer 
friends. I had to do an English paper on a member 
of my family I didn't know too much about, and ever 
since he died I had thought about how little I knew 
about his years before he was my granddaddy. And 
one day over lunch, my grandmother told me who he 
was before I knew him. 

I never knew he was superstitious. He was so 
scared of black cats that if one ran out in front of him 
while he was driving, he would turn around so as not 
to cross its path. One day he ran across the path of 
a black cat before he could turn. He had three flat 
tires before he could get the remaining two miles to 
the job site. And he never started a work job on a 
Friday for fear of bad luck. 

I never knew that he kept a silver dollar in his 
pocket his entire life. He had gotten the silver dollar 
for his tenth birthday. After he died, I saw the coin, 



28 



^Jadfccfeo 



7.9.97 



as did many people in the family, for the first time. 
It was worn smooth and thin from being rubbed by 
his calloused fingers whenever he became nervous in 
a trying social situation. 

I never knew he kept his wallet under his mat- 
tress. He did this for privacy, my grandmother told 
me. "Certain things were too personal for anyone 
else to have any business with," she explained, "and 
his wallet was one of those things." He even kept it 
under the mattress at home. After he died, my 
grandmother discovered three pictures of her in his 
wallet. She had sent him each of the three pictures 
while he was in the Navy during World War II. He 
never replaced them with a newer photograph. 

My grandmother never knew that friends had 
confided in him for years. When he died several 
family friends told her that they had been calling 
him with their problems for many years. He never 
told even his wife that he talked to them. 

One fascinating thing that I learned was about 
the house I had helped build. It meant more to him 
than most people knew. His father, Henry, Sr., had 
inherited a large farm from his father. My 
granddaddy grew up on this farm, loving the large 
house they lived in and the endless woods to wander 
along. He especially loved the river that ran through 
part of the farm, and he fished there every day. He 
decided at that young age that he would live on that 
river forever. During the late 1930's with World 
War II looming in the background, the Army came in 
and bought the thousand-acre farm for a fraction of 
its worth to build Ft. Stewart. His father took the 



money, which was still a large sum since the land 
was worth so much. My granddaddy never had a 
home that he felt comfortable in again until the 
house on the Ogeechee River was finished — the 
house on the river that he had always wanted. He 
had found the land the house was built on ten years 
before they built the house, and he knew then that 
was where his house would be. He dedicated his life 
to building a home on the banks of a river. But just 
when he was ready to enjoy that home, he died, 
losing everything those long days and weeks of work 
had gone toward building. 

The Sunday after he died was Easter. A sunrise 
church service had been held at my grandparents' 
the previous Easter, and a similar service had been 
planned that year. My grandma insisted that the 
service still be held: "He would want it that way." As 
the preacher finished his sermon, which frequently 
crossed back to his eulogy a few days earlier, the sun 
pushed aside the clouds to shine across the river onto 
the gathering. All eyes focused on the rising sun, 
watching it rise above the marshes that the Ogeechee 
River snaked through on its way to the Atlantic 
Ocean. It was and still is the most brilliant sunrise 
I have seen. 

Every once in a while I'll stop what I am doing. 
Following an urge deep inside me, I'll go look at that 
picture of the train tracks and try to see what lies 
behind that grey haze on the horizon. 



^^xzdtyie 7S>&7 £9 



Papa 

1 remember his eyes, 

like warm ice, 
gazing thru panes of glass, 

and his skilled hands, 
that I so loved and feared — 

(though never did he bring to bear those gentle 
extensions of himself); 

1 remember (with a sense of wonder), 

how all creatures seemed to follow him, 
as if powerless to resist his lure, 

(yet he did not manipulate or deceive); 

I remember his simplistic greatness, 

so carefully wrapped in tissue, 
creased and worn with time 
(he was well-loved by Chronos, too); 

But I remember most clearly 

the day he left 
to join the One who loved him best, 

(and I never had the chance to say good-bye). 

Elaine Hall 



Life Goes On 
(For my Father) 

The sun rises 

dew fades 

leaves rustle in the wind 

birds fly 

cars go by 

tides come and go 

children laugh 

radios play 

flowers bloom 

rain falls 

dinner's cooking 

a child is born 

a cat purrs softly 

chores done 

the sun sets 

tears flow through 

another day 

without you. 

Marguerite Dismukes 



.30 



v'jadfccfeG 



7.9.97 




Solitary Confinement — Laura Beth Cohen 



^czJ&o/ie 7S&7 37 



The Comrade Griffith Show 

Brad Squibb 



Picture this. Adimension of sight and sound, space and time, apple pie and lazy summer days. 
A game of checkers at the courthouse with Deputy Barney Fife or a relaxing discussion of the nature 
of man with Floyd the barber. Aunt Bea has just put a roast in the oven, and Andy and Opie skip 
rocks, fish with homemade rods, and ponder the existence of private property. Communism has 
swept the countryside, and there is no longer a struggle between classes in Mayberry. Also gone 
with the "radical rupture" of "the Communist revolution" are Mayberry's "traditional ideas." You 
have just entered The Marxberry Zone. Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee .... 

* * * 

"Gee, pa, sure is great that all the labor in Mayberry is equally shared now. We sure have a lot of time 
to fish together, but golly, so does everyone else! It sure is crowded at our private fishin' hole today!" 

"Well, Ope, it's not our private hole anymore. There isn't any private property anymore. The 
Communists abolished private property." 

"Why'd they go and do that pa? Don't Commies like to fish?" 

"Well, ya see, son, the Communists fought for the attainment of the immediate 
aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class." 

"What?" 

"They wanted what was best for you and me and Aunt Bea and Barney and Thelma Lou 
and Goober and Floyd and . . . . " 

"Even Otis, pa?" 

"Yep, see, we were being exploited and only them Communist fellas had the clear 
understandin' to see what was goin' on, and to start our proletarian movement." 

"Well, where are they now? How come I never see any of 'em?" 

"Oh , they're around, I guess. I don't rightly know where they went after they set us straight." 



.X2 ^aJ&o/iv 7.9&7 



'Ya mean, they came to Mayberry and organized 
the revolution and led us through it and after it was 
over they just left?" 

"I guess so, Ope." 

"Hey, pa! I got one! I got one!" 

"A Communist, Ope?" 

"No, a fish! A fish!" 

"Well, now, son, that fish doesn't belong to you. That's 
a public fish. You have no right to claim it for your own." 

"Aw, gee, pa! This no-private-property thing might 
not be so swell after all!" 

"Well, son, us proletarians didn't rightly know 
what was good for us until we got set straight. And now 
it's obvious that we're better off, don'tcha think, Ope?" 

"Well, gee,Iguess so, pa,butwhycan'tlkeep the fish?" 
* * * 

"Yeah, Floyd, I could tell them bourgeoisie folk 
were up to something fishy." 

"Oh, yeah, Barney, h-h-how c-could ya tell?" 

"Well, ya see, someone with as trained and sharp 
senses as I have can detect these things way in ad- 
vance. Them bourgeois fellas slowly and carefully 
resolved everyone's personal worth into exchange value . 
They converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, 
the poet, the man of science, even you, Floyd, into paid 
wage-laborers!!" 

"O-o-oh, yeah!" 

"I could tell right from the start that them bour- 
geois fellas were sneaky and greedy and only out for 
themselves. They veiled the proletariat in religious 
and political illusions and substituted naked, shame- 
less, direct, brutal exploitation! Them kind of people 
can't help but exploit people politically, economically, 
and religiously. It's egotistical calculation! It's their 
nature. Just like the proletariat nature was to be 
oppressed and live a slavish existence of mere race 
propagation. And there was competition between the 
workers as well as the bourgeois." 

"Hey, Barney? What happened to a bourgeois' 
nature when he became part of the proletariat? Did he 
have to change nature, or could he keep his old one?" 

"Oh, be quiet, Goober! Anyway, those Communist 
fellas came along and nipped the whole thing in-the- 
bud! Ya see, Floyd, the proletariat movement was self- 
conscious and independent . . . . " 

"But, Barney, that Mark feller said the proletar- 
ian movement was inevitable. How could it be self- 
conscious and independent?" 

"Goober! One more word . . . just one more word . 
. . You see, Floyd, the proletarians were called into 



existence."' 

"O-o-oh, yeah!" 

"But, Barney?!" 

"Goober, just nip it, nip-it-in-the-bud!" 
* * * 

"Oh, hello, Thelma Lou, come on in! I was just 
putting a roast in for supper tonight." 

"Oh, Aunt Bea, speaking of roasting, it's a good 
thing those fixed, fast-frozen family relations and an- 
cient and venerable prejudices and opinions were boiled 
away with the revolution." 

'Yes, for all that was solid melted into the air, and 
it wasn't long before man was faced with his real 
conditions of fife and his relations with his kind." 

"Absolutely, Bea, but why aren't there any black 
people in Mayberry?" 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou." 

"Maybe Communism abolished classification of 
races and racism with religion and morality." 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou." 

"Ya know, Bea, sometimes I think the portrayal of 
women on this show is exactly like the bourgeois — a 
mere instrument of production!" 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou." 

"What about the differences in age and sex erased 
by the bourgeoisie? And the Communist revolution 
that supposedly broke down all class struggles? Are we 
still basically copies of each other or do we have the 
power of individual choice or expression?" 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou." 

"If the foundation of the bourgeois family was 
based on capital and private gain, what is the founda- 
tion of the post-communist revolution family? Are we 
in families? Oh, God, Bea! You might not have a family! 
And God!? Is there religion?" 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou." 

"But, Bea, is our system of values the same? Are 
all men equal? Is Goober just as good or bad as my 
Barney? Is Marx's theoretical society very practical? 
And what about Otis? Otis and Marx could actually be 
related!!" 

"I don't know, Thelma Lou. We better wait 'til 
Andy comes horiie." * * 

Submitted for your approval. A world of contradic- 
tion and parody. A world caught between there and 
here, then and now. Each individual with valid ques- 
tions and seemingly few answers. But then again . . . 

This is the Marxberry Zone. 

Dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee 



^aJ&o/iv ?£&/ ^3 



To Those Who Were 

To those who were 
.... Too blind to see, 

may you forever see my face, 
.... Too deaf to hear my cries, 

may you forever hear my scream, 
.... Too busy to help, 

may time forever stand still, 
.... Too scared to try, 

may I forever haunt you, 
.... Too foolish to do anything, 

may my blood forever remain on your hands. 

Heather Mitzi Crow 



Kentucky Oak 



Kentucky oak standing in the corner, 
Tape at one end, scars at the other. 
Soft tan grain in perfect blend, 
A small crack was a fitting end. 



Descending Liquid 

descending 



liquid 



interrupted 

pools quietly 

in the night 



An old man in a rocking chair 

With sagging eyes and thinning hair 

Rises from his seat to get it 

And curses the spinning sphere that split it. 

Cory Hill 



the 



liquid 



runs, 



purifies, 

nothing 

remains. 

Craig Kozlowski 



34 



^Dadfocfee 



7,9.97 



The Drunk and the Poet 

I 

"How do you live, O man of rhyme, 

Without the sweet taste of wine, 

Does your heart hunger not 

For succor from time to time, 

Doesn't your soul crave to soar 

To lofty heights scaled through drink, 

Doesn't your mind wish to behold 

Wonders that Bacchus can bring; 

Men of whatever hue or kind 

At one time all are slaves of wine, 

But you're truly one of a kind 

For escape seems not to seek your mind, 

Do tell me what O man of rhyme 

Keeps you from the quart of wine." 



II 



"Though in this world my self is seen 
My mind does from time to time 
Escape to a world unseen, 
And behold truly wondrous sights 
Sights that so delight the heart 
That it knows of torment not a part, 
And leave the soul so deeply touched 
That full of vigor it rises much; 
Thus, in mysticism escapes my mind, 
And needs not escape in wine, 
But other than that we are both drunks, 
For intoxicated you are with wine, 
And I'm just as drunk on rhyme." 

Vikram Kapur 



^aJ&ofie 7S>&7 



^S 



JG C &aJ&o/ie 73.97 



Everywhere 




Far Cry From McDonald's — BJ English 



"There is a land of the living and a land of the 
dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, 
the only meaning." 

Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey 



^a&o/ie 7£>S>7 3/ 



Meet Me at Night 

Meet me at night 

Where nature and shadows are our only witnesses. 

Where our minds shutter the cold, and skin is awakened by the moonlight. 

Follow me through its hours 

Where the rain streams to vitalize our desires. 

Where touch moves in legato and passion uncovers its mystique and powers. 

Greet me in the morning 

Where the sun walks as king and larks announce his arrival. 

Where thoughts begin to rest dreams, and love holds no blanket. 

Dina Vogel 



The Piano 

A piano of long ago stands disregarded 

In the desolate corner of the deserted house 

Unplayed, forgotten, remembering 
The years the dove-like hands rested fiercely, 

Blindly pounding out a blatant expression by Bach 
or mildly stroking out a mellow medley of Beethoven 

Once haughty about the artists who touched its keys, 
The Piano now longs for anyone to come upon it 

with unstinting love to beat 
out a melody ever so carefully, 

entertaining even no one or someone 
only to fill a world or even an ear. 

Wende K. Carver 



38 ^tocz/tio/ie 73>.97 



From the Mouths of Babes 

"And so you would be a philosopher" the old woman laughed. 
"At twenty-years and one, what do you know?" 
The girl spoke without hesitation, as was her custom. 
"At twenty-years and one, this is all that I know: 
Wisdom is the retention of both knowledge and mercy 

in the face of adversity. 
Love is best served when it is a dish made on rare occasion, 

but then in bounty. 
Truth is to open one's mouth and speak with both 

conviction and compassion. 
And Tranquility is the eventual alchemy of pairing 

dignity with vision." 
To the learned maiden's dismay, the old woman laughed again. 
"Surely you know more that that, at twenty-years and one! 
This is the question, yes, the very point of Philosophy: 

What is Utopia?" 
The girl's reply came slowly this time, as she was 
taken aback, "A perfect world is simply this: 

To keep good company and pray to a kindly god. 
To eat hearty food, dance with delight, and drink dark wine. 

Yet most of all it is this: 
To have a shade tree large enough to keep 

all one's friends cool in summer, 
so that, upon their leisure, they may disclose 

all idle dreams, worthy thought, and good talk. 

Truly, ma'am, this is all that I know." 
This time her teacher did not laugh; at length, she said, 

"That is more than most. Go then, child, 
and philosophize." 

Christi Manley 



^5cz6fccfe& 



7S>&? ^3 



The Debate 

In danger, close to the edge of the road, 

He earnestly jabs at the stirred-up air. 

Countering thoughts with silent debaters, 

The demented disputant strides next to the curb. 

Asking the trees to back up his argument, 

He stops when his eyes meet with mine in the car. 

In fact, does he see me as I wait in my car 

And know that I'm real, lined up here in the road? 

Or do I become like the noise and the air — 

An irritant much like his ceaseless debaters, 

A new set of eyes that arrives at the curb 

To set him off into some meaningless argument? 

Does his mind never tire of undying argument? 
Can't he turn off his babble as I, in my car, 
Can switch off the radio as I travel the road? 
Is he doomed waking hours to spend motioning air, 
While valiantly coping with ghostly debaters? 
I sense no real answers as I watch from the curb. 

All alone, without keeper, this man at the curb, 
With no one to bolster his ongoing argument, 
Just drivers who stare, as I do, from a car, 
Wondering why he's allowed near the road. 
I voice my outrage while I fan the hot air, 
While realizing we're nothing but idle debaters. 

His face shows deep lines from his years with debaters, 
Six inches of beard I can see from the curb. 
That his clothes need a wash cannot be an argument. 
Other needs are too hidden to spot from my car. 
Does his world include places besides just this road? 
Has he a roof for protection, and not just the air? 

Again the demented man's hand cuts the air 

As his tirade continues with persistent debaters. 

I try not to look as I pull away from the curb 

But my eyes won't obey, as though locked in an argument. 

He's out of clear sight now, he's far from my car, 

But near in my thoughts as I take off down the road. 

Just a demented debater, arms flailing the air 
In an argument that no one feels willing to curb, 
Now in my mind's eye as I drive in my car. 

Gayle Whitaker 



{t>adUc^iG 



4(3 ^aJ&o/ie 7S&7 




Reach Out — Robbie 



C t^£&^ 7&&f 47 



Speechless 

Characters — Casey: seven year old daughter of 
Jeff and Dawn Stubbs, friends of 
Don. 

Don: ASC English Major who en- 
joys writing, but often has "blocks" 
and becomes discouraged when 
trying to come up with something 
profound. 

Scene — A gathering of friends. Numerous 

conversations taking place simul- 
taneously. One between Casey and 
Don. 



Casey: 


Donny, what's your last name? 


Don: 


Newman. 


Casey: 


How do you spell it? 


Don: 


Well, you put two words together. 




"New" and "man." You can spell 




"man," can't you? 


Casey: 


M-A-N (writing it down). 


Don: 


OK, now spell "new." 


Casey: 


Ummmmm .... 


Don: 


You know what new is, don't you? 


Casey: 


Well, let's see. It's like when 



something new . . . Like a new 
pencil is new, but an old pencil is 
chewed up and speechless .... 

Don, with a bewildered gape and near epiphanic 
look, is at a loss for words. 

Don Newman 




Brittany — Mary Robinson 



42 ^a^&o/ie ?£>&/ 



My Corner 

From beneath the grasses shy violets 
Peep and softly greet 
The weary mother on her retreat. 
Along the path to the trickling brook 
Cardinals and Blue Birds usher with 
Lilting refrains. 

Strong ferns encroach the path to the 

Babbling stream. 

The fortress of Poplar and Hickories 

and Oaks 

Compel strife its hold to revoke. 

A cordial Cypress summons repose. 

Bright green leaves, melodic refrains 
The gentle rhythm of the stream — 
Refresh the winter dryness of her soul. 

Like a dry sponge in an ocean of 
New life She bathed in the tenderness 
and grandeur 

of Her Creator. 

Suzane Wiggins 



Just As I Am 

I may not talk like other guys — 

I may not walk like the other guys, but — 

You still love me, just as I am 

Maybe it's hard for you to understand the words I speak, 

but— 
you take the time. 

I walk slowly, but you seem not to mind 

You love me, just as I am — 

When we go out you don't try to hide — 

Nor do you seem to mind how people look at you and me. 

You don't treat me like an infant, but — 

You treat me with loving dignity — 

I love you for loving me . . . 

Just As I Am — 

R. Glenn Moscoso 



True Love 

This is the nature of 

true love: 

That you may see 

the flaw, 

And pity that your beloved 

had to endure its making. 
That you may see 
the flaw, 
And feel anger that they 

who loved him before you 
could not have saved the lover from it. 
This is the nature of true love: 

That you may see the flaw, 

and, yet, love the flawed. 

Christi Manley 



^aJ&ofie 73*97 43 



War Memories 

Lisette de Groot 



Half a century ago, I was a young girl living in the Netherlands. It was a time 
of oppression by the Germans during WW II and although the population as a whole 
suffered, children led a normal life: going to school, doing homework and playing. At 
least, there was a routine. If the father had not been taken in a "razzia" by the 
Germans to work in a factory in Germany, most kids had a two-parent household. My 
Dad, with whom I was close, also managed to stay out of the Germans' hands, but there 
were some close calls. Living in an occupied country, where the people are not free to 
congregate, where one has to be careful when talking to a friend because a traitor 
might overhear something, creates tension. This tension influences behavior in adults 
as well as children. Nevertheless, it also brings families closer together. 

When war broke out on May 10, 1940, our family lived in a small town not far 
from the Hague and Leiden, where my father was stationed in the Dutch Army. At 
about 4 A.M. , we were awakened by the droning of hundreds of airplanes on their way 
to bomb the city of Rotterdam. It was soon light, and overhead the sky looked black. 
Feeling overwhelmed , my father decided to take action. Dressed in his Army uniform, 
he stood in the middle of the street, his gun aimed at the airplanes. "If I could just hit 
the gastank," he said, "there would be one airplane less." Although he tried for quite 
some time, he was not successful. Disappointed, he came back inside. Then, we 
watched the first Dutch fighter plane being shot down, falling helplessly and burning 
to the ground. The pilot parachuted down and was later treated in a make-shift 



44 ^a^o/io 7£3>7 



hospital down the street. I was impressed and 
subdued, seeing the stretcher with the wounded 
man carried inside. We had watched it all thru the 
small window in our front door, while shooting was 
going on, not realizing that it was dangerous. We 
could easily have been hurt! As the war continued, 
people learned how to protect themselves by going 
into the cellar or in a closet or bathroom. Sometimes 
only the bathroom walls of a house were left stand- 
ing, but people would still be alive! 

After Holland had capitulated after just a few 
days, life continued. Gradually, we were surrounded 
by German soldiers who marched singing thru the 
streets, who confiscated homes for offices, and later 
bicycles as well. A bicycle was the main vehicle of 
transportation. If one lost that, it meant walking to 
get groceries, or to visit friends and family. I remem- 
ber toward the end of the war that my mother asked 
my Dad specifically whether she could use her bike 
to go to the store. It seemed safe, because no bikes 
had been confiscated lately. So off my mother went. 
To her surprise, when she reached the corner of Main 
Street, a young German soldier ordered her off her 
bike, saying, "Give it to me," and peddled away. 
Goodbye, bike! Mother was very angry and upset! 
And this bike was still in good condition, although it 
no longer had regular tires. My father was always 
fooling with bicycles . People were riding bikes with- 
out tires, with wooden tires, and also tires made out 
of rubber garden hose. Our bikes had double garden 
hose tires: one inside another. My father's proud 
invention! 

In September of 1944, we lived with my grand- 
mother and her lady friend/companion in a big house 
in the center of Holland near Arnhem. It seemed 
safer to move there from the western part of the 
country and we would be closer to the farms for food 
supply. That month was the big attempt by the 
allied forces to conquer Arnhem, which lies on the 
Rhine river. From the kitchen window we watched 
hundreds of parachutists coming down in a field 
somewhere in Arnhem. Imagine the tremendous 
excitement! Even though a big battle lay ahead, we 
anticipated liberation in a few days. But it was not 
to be, and everyone was immensely disappointed. 
The Germans were not giving up; Arnhem was 
practically destroyed and its people had been evacu- 
ated right before the start of the battle. Our house 



was filled with evacuees, our relatives from Arnhem, 
but after a few days the Germans ordered all to leave 
town, except for my other grandmother who was 
allowed to stay because of her age. It was a desolate 
sight to see them leave, parents walking with small 
children and few belongings. Would we ever see 
them again, and where would they find a place to 
stay? So many questions and fears of the unknown. 
After the disappointment of the failed liberation 
attempt, followed by the separation from our rela- 
tives, a feeling of desolation set in. Yet, we had to try 
to make the best of it, and grin and bear it. 

Pretty soon the household chores of day to day 
living kept everyone busy. All schools were closed 
now, but after a short time about ten or twelve 
children were given daily lessons to prepare them for 
high school, actually the 7th grade. We met in a room 
of the local gas factory for a while, also in the garage 
of the doctor whose son was in our class. It was 
fortunate that our teacher was willing to do this, 
although the parents probably paid him with cash or 
food. Now and then our village was attacked by 
projectiles shot from tanks. My father had in- 
structed me how to protect myself. "When you hear 
the boom, boom, boom, in the distance," he said, "you 
have to listen to the direction of the sound, so that if 
the building gets hit, the wall will protect you in- 
stead of falling upon you." After the boom, boom, 
boom, one also hears the whistling sound, followed 
by the impact. So sure enough, one day, while 
walking to school (the gas factory), I heard the 
dreaded boom, boom, boom sound, like distant thun- 
der. Quickly I ran to the other side of the street, lying 
down flat on the ground against the wall of a big 
building. More children and adults came and also 
lay down. How proud I felt that I had taken the 
initiative and done the right thing! Although we 
were scared, the bombs did not fall in that street, but 
a couple of blocks away. Meanwhile, I had to move 
a few inches several times to make room for the 
others, until I was almost with my nose in a dog's 
droppings. I did not particularly care for it, but 
reasoned laconically that it was still better than 
being killed. As soon as the scary whistling and 
explosions stopped, everyone got up and went on his 
way, as if nothing had happened. One tries to harden 
inside and act stoically. It is the best attitude, for 
otherwise one would fall apart. 



(2>£Z^£^^ 



7S>&? 4*5 



In order to survive, there were many chores to 
do. One of the chores in those days was standing in 
line for bread or milk. The milk by then was very thin 
and bluish looking. Absolutely no-fat milk, without 
added milk solids as we have today. Everyone came 
with his own container, like a pitcher or pan. 
Sometimes we stood in line for a long time, and when 
it was our turn finally, or almost finally, the milk 
supply had run out so that we went home empty- 
handed. One time I remember clearly. My mother 
was expecting and sent me out to get the milk. When 
I arrived at the store, there was already a long line 
of people waiting. Everyone waited patiently that 
day and made small-talk. Suddenly, the storekeeper 
came outside and announced: "Anyone who is ex- 
pecting may come to the head of the line." Immedi- 
ately I went to the front, but the whole line of people 
roared with laughter. Here was this eleven year old 
girl, trying to get ahead, who apparently was not 
pregnant! How embarrassing! All I could mumble 
was: "But it is for my mother who is expecting." 
Apparently there was enough milk for that day, so I 
had to get back in my place in the line. The people 
had a short moment of laughter, thereby momen- 
tarily forgetting hardships. Although on this occa- 
sion I was the butt of the joke and didn't mean to be, 
or cared for it, I can now appreciate the humor. 

What was very difficult for children as well as 
adults, was not to give oneself away when soldiers 
came knocking at the door to look for the man in the 
house. Those were anxious moments for all. My 
father became careless one day and stood in the 
living room when the soldiers passed our house. The 
Germans actually had seen the glimmerof my father's 
watch crystal. Luckily, we had also noticed them, so 
Dad hid under the floor of the house. To do this, he 
went in the coat closet, lifted up the linoleum, re- 
moved the cover of the square entrance to the low 
crawlspace, and then mother quickly replaced the 
cover and the linoleum. All this had to be done in a 
jiffy, because we couldn't let the Germans wait at the 
front door. They were knocking impatiently, 
shouting: "Open the door, NOW!" Coming inside, 
they were very determined to find my father. They 
looked in every closet, went upstairs looking every- 
where, came back downstairs, and checked the 
ooatdoeet three times! They insisted they had seen 
him, but mother told them they were wrong; her 



husband was working in Germany. Finally they 
departed. Meanwhile, my father sweated it out 
underground and almost gave himself away because 
he had to cough. He thought he would burst! From 
then on he was very careful not to show himself in the 
front of the house. We were all so relieved that he 
had this narrow escape. I learned during the war 
that lying or hiding the truth from the enemy is 
permissible when you have to protect yourself. At 
other times, a lie told would result in punishment. 
Yet, some people used the war as an excuse when 
they lied, claiming they were unable to learn right 
from wrong. 

The "hunger winter" of 1944-45 was a cold and 
dark winter. Cold, because there was no more coal 
to burn in the stoves. People cut down trees if they 
could (it was not allowed) for firewood, or anything 
else that would burn, like gate posts, and old door, 
etc. The cooking was done on a flat-top stove in the 
living room. Dark, because we had no electricity and 
the Germans had ordered all windows darkened at 
night to hinder the allies. No light was allowed to 
shine thru the curtains. On December 1, when my 
brother was born, there was a knocking on the front 
door. My father threw all caution aside and opened 
the door himself. Two German soldiers stepped 
inside. Immediately they wanted to go upstairs, but 
my father stood in the way explaining that his wife 
was in labor. The soldiers brushed him aside and 
quickly went up the stairs, entering the room next to 
my mother's. In that room stood a burning candle on 
the shelf of the washstand, its light reflected in a 
mirror and shining thru a small opening of the dark 
curtains. The soldier quickly closed the curtains 
completely and gave a warning that it should not 
happen again. Both soldiers left. My father was 
much relieved, because he had been unwise to face 
the Germans instead of hiding. The Germans could 
easily have taken him. 

Evenings were spent in the kitchen, the warm- 
est place of the house. There was a small gaslight, 
although at 10 P.M. it was shut off by the authorities. 
The family played many card games around the 
kitchen table. My grandmother knitted house slip- 
pers, sweaters, anything. Old garments were un- 
raveled to be made into new apparel. Food was very 
scarce. There was no meat and we ate sugarbeets 
daily. Also fodderbeets, which were a little less 



46 ^aJ&o/ie 7£&f 



sweet. Eel-baskets were set out in the creek that ran 
thru our yard, and big, fat eels were caught. It was 
my father's duty to kill and skin the eels. The eels 
would be slithering with their heads up over the 
patio, making a "kah-kah" sound. Dad, who was very 
sensitive and hated this job, would grab an eel to 
chop its head off. The eel would wriggle its whole 
body around my father's arm, making the task dif- 
ficult. I would watch my father's and the eel's 
struggle. Finally, the eels were chopped in five-inch 
pieces and then fried in a pan with a lid, because 
those pieces were still wriggling and jumping. The 
meat tasted delicious. It was very greasy, but we all 
had a need for fat. 

There was another occasion when we had meat. 
This time my Dad shot a big, fat wood pigeon out of 
a blue spruce with his air-gun. He was so surprised 
at his own skill. Dad plucked the bird, Mother 
cooked it, but when we set down for dinner, Dad 
could not bring himself to even taste it. 

Gradually, the winter turned into spring. The 
Allied forces were coming closer again to liberate the 
northern part of Holland. Finally, our town came 
under fire. By now water also was shut off. We 
decided it would be safer to sleep in the cellar. There 
were ten adults and three children, with my brother 
sleeping in the cradle. A big ceramic pot, normally 
used to put up sauerkraut, was used for a toilet, and 
stood in a corner of the cellar. An older gentleman 
evacuee refused to use it; instead he went upstairs to 
the bathroom, in between the shootings. He was 
quite deaf, so maybe he was not as disturbed by all 
the noise and danger as we were. The cellar was 
directly underneath the kitchen. When the grenade 
bombs shot by allied tanks hit the kitchen, there was 
a cacophonic sound of the bomb explosion, bricks 
falling, as well as the clattering noise of pans knocked 
down from shelves. One grenade landed right close 
to the protected cellar window into the septic tank. 
Splash!! This was a so-called "blind-runner," mean- 
ing a bomb that did not explode on impact. Then 
suddenly, we heard water running after a bomb hit. 
Quickly, my father located the main water line and 



closed the faucet. The water stopped running Fi- 
nally, after five nights and four days the allies were 
in town! It was a beautiful spring day, April 16. My 
father had already pushed open the cellar door. This 
was not easy, because a five inch layer of rubble was 
on the kitchen floor. The roof was gone and he looked 
straight into a blue sky. Looking at the damage, he 
also noticed that the aquarium sitting on top of a 
cabinet was broken. All the water had run out. Dad 
realized then that the leaking water pipe had actu- 
ally been the water running out of the aquarium. By 
coincidence the sound of running water stopped at 
the same time that the faucet was turned off. Be- 
cause of nerves, nobody had remembered that we 
had been without water for days! 

Although the bombing had stopped, we could 
hear the tanks in the main street and also the rapid 
fire of machineguns. The allies were here! Gradu- 
ally everyone but myself went up the cellar stairs 
and into the house, assessing the damage and listen- 
ing for the sounds outside. I was too scared and 
refused to come out of the safety of the cellar. My 
parents and the others let me be and walked to Main 
Street to see what was going on. Maybe after an hour 
they came back, urging me to come up, that it was 
really safe. I did not trust this calm; my nerves were 
shattered from the past few days. But I finally 
overwon my fear and we all went to Main Street, 
where the 'Tommies" (soldiers) in tanks handed out 
cigarettes and chocolate. The population was jubi- 
lant. Everybody suddenly had Dutch red, white, and 
blue flags waving in the wind and people were 
singing "Orange in Top" (the color for the House of 
Orange). It was an overwhelming feeling to be 
outside and free. The hated Germans were either 
killed or taken prisoners of war; we were finally rid 
of them. Our family had survived and that evening 
we slept again in our own beds. 

Although all these evens happened a long time 
ago, they are impossible to forget. War is a dreadful 
thing, and I hope that our children and grandchil- 
dren will never have to experience it. 



^adbo/ie 73SV 4/ 



The Blood of Nature 

The tall pines grow inside the glen which stretches 
along a cool creek 
bouncing 

down 

the mountain 
becoming the old, 

meandering river that slips 
past the drying farmlands and sleepy swamps, 
through dammed reservoirs, 

under rusting bridges 
and into the coastal marshes, filtering the water 
from the garbage of the miles of civilization 

the river journeyed through, 
and finally the river 

plunges into the sea 
to help build culminating clouds 
that the winds carry 

back uphill and release 
to the pines, 
in a gentle rain, 
the waters of the neighboring creek. 

Ron Speir, Jr. 




Oak Tree with View — Joe Hul 



48 ^ad&o/ie 73SV 



The Ocean 



Love is like the ocean. 

Calm one minute, then raging and terrible 

the next. 

No warning given, uncaring of anyone or anything. 

Capable of incredible fury, 

but able to lap gently at your ankles. 

As if it exists only for your pleasure 

to enjoy and admire as if it has never been seen before. 

But as peaceful as it may look on the surface 

One can never tell what is underneath. 

What horrors may be lurking there 

Just out of sight. Waiting for the unlucky wader to 

wander by. To strike, to wound, 

to hurt as no other pain can hurt. 

Sailors long ago, though they may have ruled the surface, 

were terrified of what was below, what they couldn't see, 

Couldn't control. 

As I am with love. I have mastered the surface, 

But what lies below I cannot even begin to control. 

Just like the ocean. 

Or is it I who am like the ocean, or my love? 

We are both capable of the same sort of fury 

Are we not? 

Unable to understand ourselves except on the surface, 

Much less the horrors just beneath. 

Some say the ocean is the last frontier, 

I say they are wrong. 

It is love. 

Something is like the ocean. 

But how can I tell what 

When I can't even understand my own mind? 

MED 



In Spite of Friendship 

In spite of friendship 

Instead of love 

Because days gone by 

Without a thought 

To emotions or tender hearts 

By means of enduring hatred 

As well as a hardened heart. 

In spite of friendship 
Instead of forgiveness 
Beneath the icy surface flows 
With traces of anger, and of guilt 
During moments of confusion 
'Til time is no more in the memory of 
men. 

When time is no more 

In the memory of men 

During peace 

With regard to friendship 

With respect to love 

In place of haunting hatred 

Among the flowers of forgiveness 

Contentment. 

Bonnie Payne 



^aJ&o/ie 73 £V 43 



Out 



Imperceptibly squeezing out 
from under his arm, 

she slides smoothly out 

of the cramped warmth, 
and tiptoes out 

onto the cold planked floor. 

Silently slipping into set-out clothes 
in the darkened place, 

she hurriedly stops 

to look back at him, 

his arm encircling her pillow, 
unaware of the loss. 

Escaping out 

into the new still morning, 
she exhales, 

turning her head to see who is out, 

anxious to be going. 

Striding briskly, her enthusiasm out- 
strips her composure, 
and she lets out 
a delirious, 

unplanned, 

out-of-control 
whoop! 

Gayle Whitaker 



SO ^aJ&o/ie 73>Stf 



Loved One 

Sometimes I think I see you 
looking through the clouds at me; 
a secret shared by no one 
about the family. 

I tell you things I know 

you'll want to hear about and then, 

I tell you of my heart 

and places that I've been. 

Now granddaddy is with you 
and building heavenly roads, 
with bulldozers and graders 
and instruments of gold. 

Your grandmother, you would be proud, 

grows sweeter every day, 

and never does a day go by 

that her thoughts don't pass your way. 

Little brothers you would not know them 
grown so tall and handsome too, 
the sensitive and lean one 
and the one that looks like you. 

John, the oldest grandson now, 
fifteen, tall and vain, 
while a girlfriend every moment 
fills his thoughts and brain. 

And Thomas little cousin 

grown so tall and thin, 

fights a battle with leukemia 

and knows some of where you've been. 



Emily and Rebekah, 

little cousins at their best, 

with cheerleaders and Barbie dolls 

little girls like all the rest. 

Laura, the cousin you especially asked for, 
arrived with joy last year, 
A little sweetheart, pink and precious, 
so special and so dear. 

Your granny and your papa, 
sing a special little song, 
they remember you with fondness 
and they know you sing along. 

Your daddy now is growing 
wiser every day, 

his love for you these past four years 
has grown in every way. 

Our family has grown older 
your memories have grown dear, 
as we think of you in heaven 
and miss you so down here. 

Love, Mom 

Tina Miles 



^a^o/^ 7S>£>7 S7 



Laying Waste to an American Generation 

Russell Jones 



It was an afternoon meant for children. The sun was shining down through broken 
clouds that were being pushed along by some comforting breeze that coaxed an occasional 
brown leaf from one of the trees surroundeding a small, grassy field meant for a boy, his dog 
and a frisbee. Yet there were no children, and from the distant look on the face of the lone, 
elderly man, there never had been, and probably never would be. 

He sat in his cold steel wheelchair, alone in the shade of an old pine tree that grew 
nearest the asphalt parking lot bordering the expansive field. I had watched him struggle 
to arrive in his spot, fighting with the wheelchair in small patches of dirt with tree roots that 
protruded from the earth just far enough to make getting over them a monumental chore, 
requiring total effort from his aging muscles. Upon finally arrivingunder his tree, he wheeled 
over to what must have been a familiar spot as he jostled his wheelchair an inch or two in 
several directions until he seemed happy with the way he was facing. And so he sat — not 
reading, not writing, not eating or drinking, but looking. I feel sure he was not looking at the 
field or the clouds, but rather at his memories. He seemed almost lost in them, as America 
is lost in what to do with him. 

It's shameful that America finds it convenient to shut away a generation after an 
arbitrary age deadline strikes. Retirement is forced on many seniors at 65, and some 
companies encourage early retirement with bonuses and parties. The same quick pace of the 
world that enforces the withdrawal of the elderly from working society also dictates that the 
younger generation input overwhelming amounts of time and energy to keep pace, and a 

32 C ^/^oAo 7.9.97 



problem develops. The solution for many Americans 
tends to be a Retirement Home. (While some may 
call it a rest home, or nursing home, or whatever, I 
will borrow from Shakespeare that "That which we 
call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.") 
This sad scenario represents a missed opportunity 
for many Americans, not just the old, but also the 
young. 

For instance, I grew up knowing my grandfa- 
ther to be a respectable man whom I looked forward 
to seeing, not as a broken man surrounded by other 
elderly people, some of whom were much worse off 
than he. This surely would have diminished my 
enthusiasm to see him and would have forever 
erased any opportunity for him to pass on to me his 
greatest gift — the gift of teaching. 

Vernon Mixter was his name, and although 
he has long since passed away, his influence contin- 
ues to guide me through life. He had about him 
certain qualities that defined for me terms such as 
determination, commitment, respect and endurance. 
These and many other lessons I learned from him, 
along with the way he unconsciously taught them to 
me, will stick with me forever. 

For as long as I can remember, my grandfa- 
ther had a wooden leg below his left knee. I think he 
lost his leg in an accident, although I can't say for 
sure because the subject hardly ever came up. To 
me, it was just a natural part of my grandfather. He 
never complained about it, or even mentioned it, 
really. He endured it with dignity. It was a good 
lesson. 

I remember he was a great flying enthusiast. 
So dedicated was he that he built a Piper Cub 
airplane in his backyard. I never got to see him fly 
it, but I've seen pictures of him standing tall next to 
it. His emotions emanate from the picture and give 
away his feeling of pride and joy for his plane. Sadly, 
the reason I never got to see him fly in his plane, or 
fly with him, is the F.A.A. stripped him of his pilot's 
license when he lost his leg. He still took me out to 
fly his plane, though. In his determination not to 
abandon his love of flying, he turned to building 
remote controlled model airplanes, and he would 
take me to the park to help fly them. Carefully he 
would explain to me what ailerons were, and what 
the function for the rudder was; then with a quick 
upward thrust we would launch the plane into flight. 



He was determined to pursue his dreams, and he 
shared them with me. It was a good lesson. 

Our camping trips at Four Lakes Camp- 
ground also provided insightful memories about my 
grandfather. After the required campground meal of 
well done hamburgers and scorched hot dogs with a 
side of baked beans, Mom would break out the guitar 
and the women would start singing those corny folk 
songs I was surely too cool to sing. There was one 
song, however, that I could put up with, and even 
looked forward to hearing. The Green, Green Grass 
of Home was the name of the song, and part of it 
requires someone to talk to the music, not sing. This 
is where my grandfather came in. Somberly he 
would start into it. "The old town looks the same, as 
I step down from the train..." It wasn't the words so 
much that held the meaning for me, but the atmo- 
sphere surrounding the moment. All would be quiet 
with the exception of the crackling of the campfire 
and the rhythmic strumming of the guitar as the 
voice of my grandfather carried everyone into him- 
self. He had everyone's attention without asking for 
it; he had everyone's respect without demanding it. 
It was a good lesson. 

Looking back, it seems that my grandfather 
lived a full life, for although he was taken from me by 
a heart attack when I was very young, he had the 
opportunity to tell me of many experiences and share 
with me first hand many of the lessons he learned 
along the way. This is the way it should be, but 
tragically, today's society all too often relinquishes 
its elderly to the condescending hands of strangers, 
feeling its commitment filled with an occasional visit 
or telephone call. I can't help but wonder if this is the 
case for the elderly man who was sitting under the 
pine tree. 

When I last saw him, he was asleep in his 
wheelchair, holding his head in his left hand as he 
slumped down. A nurse dressed in clinical white 
from her hat to her shoes approached the man, 
politely shook him awake, and started to wheel him 
back inside the home. Where was this old man's 
grandson? What good is coming from shutting this 
man back inside a sterile room where the four walls 
close in on him? There are lessons to be learned, 
experiences to be shared, all too valuable to be 
missed. On this beautiful afternoon, where were 
this man's children? 



^adfy/ie 73SV S3 



It's Only Quiet If You're Not Listening 

The feel of fresh washed 

sand 

Smells of wet sea weed 

Shore line and endless 

sea 

Musical air 

Cotton candy hair 

Star fish, seagulls and 

sand dollars 

Sticky skin 

Red pain and lotion 

lava sand 

Laughter and joy 

A thankful breeze 

Moon slivers 

Waves of thunder 

Echo in ice 

Sounds of still 

Deb Domako 



A Contradiction 

Life begins not at birth 
With shut eyes 
And innocent cries. 

Nor does life with puberty spring. 
It starts to rise, 
Then briefly dies. 

And life doesn't come with 

the adulthood moon, 
With responsibility's hold 
'Round freedom's god. 

No, I don't think life starts then 
When youth is sold 
And love is cold 

For me — 

Life 
Starts 



Now. 



JHP 



S4 ^a^o^o 7£&7 



Liquification 

I find 
That within the reach of my waves 
I stand on chance of ever liquifying 
even the slightest tinge of time 
that drifts wondrously between now and when, 
but if I tidal wide, fierce and just high enough, 
I might find some trace of passion shoreline 
that I arc or create or even destroy 
with each new virtue instilled 
by the vertical fluid integrity 
that, by the Grace of God, 
will continue to flow on, 
spilling out before us, 
until I find time to rest 
and slowly but steadily roll and tumble in 
to wash the old castles away 
and to bring you a larger 
and much brighter seashell than before. 

Tim Gill 



The Proper Utility 

Is it indeed 

The fool who ventures 

between wakefulness and the big sleep? 

is he lost? 

trapped? 

searching in vain? 

right on? 

— Whatever — 

call me a fool, 

for the truth lay here, 

with me 

on my pillow . . . 

Oh, whisper them to me. 

Tell me quiet fire-side stories 

while we sleep 

together 

in quaint Father led family unities. 

Tim Gill 



^JCZ&fccfee 



7&Sf S3 



Joe Christmas: 

Hero of Light in August 

And Beyond.... 

Christy Cadle 



People have always searched for heroes to celebrate and heroic actions to 
applaud; they need good examples to hold up to society which prove the success of the 
human race. This need perhaps is the reason critics have attacked William Faulkner's 
Light in August, a novel seemingly bereft of hope and human triumph. But through 
the violence and darkness, a hero emerges, a mysterious character who attacks and 
murders. 

Light in August centers around Joe Christmas, a character who kills his adopted 
father and his mistress, attacks his friends, and loves no one. His problem seems to 
develop from his unknown heritage, which rumor identifies as a mixture of black and 
white blood. He appears at first to be an aloof, almost vicious man; a man who draws 
the hatred of all he meets, including readers. But Christmas' character goes much 
deeper. Despite appearances, he does not portray the evil in the novel, nor does 
Faulkner intend him to do so. In fact, Faulkner's intention is the opposite; Joe 
Christmas is the hero. 

On the surface, Christmas does seem more villainous than heroic. Acloser study, 
however, reveals that Faulkner's hero is not so different from classical heroes of the 
past. Classical mythology tells us that these heroes are often born under mysterious 
circumstances, then spirited away to be raised by foster parents, often after the father 



76 ^aJ&o/ie 73.97 



or maternal grandfather has attempted to murder 
the child-hero (Noel 69). Such are the circumstances 
of Christmas' early life, who, we find out near the end 
of the novel, was born to a young white girl and a 
father of unknown (but presumed Negro) heritage. 
After killing Christmas' father, Hines, his maternal 
grandfather, tries to kill the baby Christmas, but 
later takes him to an orphanage where he is adopted 
by the McEacherns. From the beginning, Faulkner 
structures Christmas' life according to the model of 
the classical hero, thus illustrating the character's 
heroic origin. 

Indeed, Christmas' entire life appears much 
like the life of a classical hero. John Longley com- 
pares Christmas' life to that of Oedipus. Both are 
burdened with a "curse," the curse handed to them 
by their parents, and it is because of their curses that 
both men "in the willing of [their] own actions against 
the pressure of [their destinies]" bring their down- 
falls (165). Just as Oedipus seeks the truth about his 
parents, Joe seeks to find his own "truth" in himself, 
to find his peace, and these searches for "self-knowl- 
edge" lead to their destruction (165). Christmas 
states that he, like Oedipus, is unable to break "out 
of the ring of what [he has] already done and cannot 
ever undo" (374). Both men make decisions that 
determine their destinies and bring their destruc- 
tion. Again, the likenesses between the classical 
hero (Oedipus) and Christmas are strong, further 
revealing Christmas' heroic potential. 

Not only does Christmas resemble the classi- 
cal hero, but he possesses the qualities of a modern 
hero as well. Longley states that the modern hero 
should be: 

. . . typical of the age . . . and typify the major myths 

and problems of our century. In a cosmos where 

all is chaos.. .he will very likely be destroyed as a 

result of his failure to define himself correctly in 

relation to that cosmos. Lastly, he must embody 

the perpetual human constants which are the 

property of any age. (164) 

Unfortunately, Christmas indeed represents our age. 

He portrays an outcast torn between self-discovery 

and the racial fears and prejudices of a society to 

which he does not belong. And it is his inability to 

reconcile himself to that society, to declare his race 

and "place," that destroys him. Even though he is an 

outcast, however, there is something about Christ- 



mas with which we can identify, his enduring search 
for peace. Before his capture, as Christmas sits in 
the quiet, half-light of dawn, he tells us, "[This] is all 
I ever wanted" (364). Christmas endures hatred and 
pity in search of a place where he really belongs; it is 
a search readers can understand. Thus, as a loner 
and outcast, destroyed by his rejection of society and 
his search for peace, Christmas also represents the 
modern hero. 

But what of the murders Christmas com- 
mits? What about his cruelty? True, Christmas 
often appears the villain of the novel, but he only acts 
out violently when forced. Unlike Oedipus, he does 
not seek the truth about his past but about his 
present; he chooses to live for himself. He lives at one 
time with black people in their community, and later 
he tries to live in the white community as well. He 
refuses to tell society exactly what he is, most likely 
because he does not know himself. He cannot choose 
blackness or whiteness. And so it is when his foster 
father, McEachern, tries to force him to accept his 
lifestyle, or when his mistress, Joanna Burden, tries 
to bind him to her beliefs that Christmas strikes out. 
He reacts to those attempting to fit him into a society 
where he does not belong. Faulkner said that 
Christmas chose to "live outside the human race. 
And he tried to do that but nobody would let him, the 
human race itself wouldn't let him"(quoted in Minter 
95). Thus, when society "refuses to let" Christmas 
live in his own world and make his own choices, he 
attacks it. These actions do not counter his heroic 
qualities. They reinforce them. John Longley ex- 
plains: 

Christmas' dilemma is the truly tragic one. He is 
caught not between clear cut right and wrong, but 
between right and right. Rejected, feared, hated, 
he has sought and been proud of that rejection and 
fear; but pushed too far he has gone too far, and 
unable to reconcile conflicting responsibility, he 
has committed brutal murder. (169) 
Therefore, Christmas' acts of violence result from 
his "modern hero" dilemma, and instead of illustrat- 
ing his corruption and criminality, they support his 
claim to hero. 

Because Christmas fulfills much of the clas- 
sical and modern criteria for "hero," we must accept 
that Faulkner intentionally structured the novel to 
portray Christmas as a hero of the novel. But 



^ad&o/ie 7£&f S? 



Faulkner gives other indications that Christmas, 
tit spite his initial appearances of villainy, is the hero 
of the novel as a whole. He reveals his intentions in 
two ways, first through his depictions of Christmas, 
and secondly by anticipating their effect on the 
reader. 

Faulkner creates a character who draws our 
sympathy and defies quick judgement. Instead of 
depicting only a violent and cruel man, Faulkner 
shows where Christmas' violent potential originates. 
For instance, because we see Christmas' life with 
McEachern, we understand that Christmas views 
religion as a system of control and self-denial. This 
understanding is important, because it is Joanna 
Burden's desire to make Christmas pray that leads 
him to kill her. Christmas himself says, "She would 
have been all right if she hadn't started praying over 
me" (117). Because we know about his background 
with McEachern, we understand that "praying" rep- 
resented the ultimate threat for Christmas. We 
understand that the murder is not a calculated act of 
cruelty but a violent self-defense mechanism. 

The sympathy we feel for Christmas contin- 
ues throughout the novel because Faulkner shows 
us the forces which Christmas must endure. All of 
the characters that pursue and antagonize Christ- 
mas are difficult for readers to like or understand. 
Whether it is Hines, Grimm, or the greedy Lucas 
Burch, we do not wish Christmas to fall to their 
mercy. Because most of the characters possess their 
own wickedness, from the sheriffs brutal prejudice 
to McEachern's iron discipline, Christmas' cruel 
veneer fades slightly in comparison. Faulkner 
readily shows the different cruelties of the other 
characters, making us more understanding of how 
Christmas has developed into the confused loner 
that he is; he has been subjected to too much to 
emerge unscathed. 

Faulkner best manipulates our sympathy in 
Christmas' death scene, and thus gives one of the 
best clues as to his intentions concerningChristmas. 
I [ere we see another example of Christmas' perse- 
cution and the response it evokes. After seeing 
Grimm fill Christmas' body with bullets and then 
castrate him, one of the other pursuers turns and 
vomits, explicitly showing the reader the repulsive- 
iicss of Grimm's actions. But lest we still be uncertain 
about the meaning of the scene, we are told that 



Christmas' image: 

... seemed to rise soaring into their memories 
forever and ever. They are not to lose it, in 
whatever peaceful valleys, beside whatever placid 
and reassuring streams of old age, in the mirror- 
ing faces of whatever children they will contem- 
plate old disasters and newer hopes. It will be 
there, musing, quiet, steadfast, not particularly 
threatful, but of itself alone serene, of itself alone 
triumphant. (513) 
Here we have witnessed the death of a hero, a hero 
who "triumphs" only in death, and so it is his death 
that remains unforgettable. 

Faulkner's biggest clue to Christmas' hero 
status is perhaps one of the least understood and 
most overlooked. Critics have often argued over the 
significant parallels between Joe Christmas and 
Jesus Christ. For instance, both men share the same 
initials, both appeared on Christmas, both died at 
the same age (thirty-three), and both were persecuted 
and then killed by their persecutors. Other parallels 
exist as well. But why? Why would Faulkner create 
such a violent character in Jesus Christ's likeness? 
Perhaps Faulkner intentionally modeled Christmas 
after Christ because of the potential of each to "save" 
mankind. Put simply, Christmas is Faulkner's 
sacrifice to a world he wants to save. By allowing 
Christmas to be crucified, Faulkner hoped to show 
the tragedy of Christmas' life, to remind the world 
what hatred causes and forgiveness saves. Faulkner 
sent his hero, Christmas, with a vengeance and a 
mission. 

FaulknerintendedChristmastobehis"hero" 
and "savior." However, Christmas' violence often 
interferes with the reader's ability to grasp Faulkner's 
meaning. For example, Alfred Kazin states that 
"Faulkner's world is grim" and "the opening of Light 
in August is so beautiful that nothing after quite 
comes up to it"(161). Lynn Gartrell Lewis agrees 
that because, "complete victory is unattainable . . . 
some critics . . . assert that Faulkner is commenting 
on the negative qualities in human nature, or, at 
best, on the inablility of the individual. ..to cope with 
the circumstances that confront him" (161). But we 
must not let the "grim" appearance over-influence 
our understanding. Readers of Faulkner know that 
he felt all works should be uplifting, including his 
own. The uplift in this novel comes not from a model 



SS ^cz/tio/ie 7£&7 



hero but from the hero's gift. By illustrating the 
results of prejudice, hatred, and misguided righ- 
teousness — indeed, by embodying these results in 
one man — Faulkner gives us a model of what is 
wrong. The main character, Joe Christmas, is the 
hero because he is the vessel of Faulkner's lesson. 

Because of the violence and hatred, readers 
may become entangled in the "rotted, pinched" look 
of the novel and find if difficult to see Faulkner's 
message of hope (Kazin 161). By looking deeper, 



though, we can see to the heart of the novel and its 
hero. And just in case the structural and effectual 
clues are not enough, Faulkner allows his hero to ask 
outright the question that is whispered throughout 
the novel. Christmas asks, "Just when do men that 
have different blood in them stop hating each other?" 
(274), making him not only the hero of Faulkner's 
novel, but (hopefully) the world beyond the novel as 
well. 



Works Cited 

Faulkner, William. Light in August. New York: Vintage Books, 1987. 

Kazin, Alfred. "The Stillness of Light in August." Faulkner: A Collection 
of Critical Essays. Ed. Robert Penn Warren. Englewood Cliffs: 
Prentice Hall, 1966. 147-162. 

Lewis, Lynn Gartrell. The Yoknapatawpha Novels. Athens: University of 
Georgia Press, 1976. 

Longley, John L., Jr. "Joe Christmas: The Hero in the Modern World." 
Faulkner: A Collection of Critical Essays. Ed. Robert Penn Warren. 
Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1966. 163-174. 

Minter, David, ed. Twentieth Century Interpretations of Light in August. 
Englewood Cliffs: Prentice Hall, 1969. 

Noel, Ruth S. The Mythology of Middle-Earth. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 
1978. 



C t^^b/i^ 7337 S3 



Calliope 

-■-1992 





Calliope 



Volume Nine 
Spring 1992 



Armstrong State College 
A Unit of the University System of Georgia 



Staff 

Editor: Gayle Whitaker 

Associate Editor: Fran Petrasek 

Layout Editor: Tobias Brasier 

Faculty Advisors: 
Dr. James Smith & Dr. Carol Andrews 



Calliope is published annually in the spring by and for the students of Armstrong State College. Editors give 
student work first priority but accept submissions by faculty and staff. Calliope reflects the talents and interests 
of the student body of Armstrong State College. Consideration is given to work done in all disciplines on campus. 

Students produce Calliope on a Macintosh desktop publishing system. Submissions are accepted through winter 
quarter and should be placed in Armstrong's Writing Center or mailed to the following address: 



Calliope 

Department of Languages, Literature and Dramatic Arts 

Armstrong State College 

11935 Abercorn Street 

Savannah, Georgia 31419-1997 



Faculty advisors for Calliope select the Lillian Spencer Award winners for best poem and best prose work. 



Printed by Atlantic Printing 
on recycled paper 





Contents 

W 

Joan Lehon 




Tide to Nature 


5 


Traces of Morning 


NJ 


6 


Negative Flower 


Daria Lucree 


6 


Passages of Life 


Allison B. Owen 


7 


Faceless Shadow 


Joe Goldstein 


7 


Untitled (for jill) 


P.S. Byrd 


8 


Little Red Riding Hood 


Lisa Berry 


8 


The Bed 


Deborah S. Brown 


9 


Workout 


Gayle Whitaker 


10 


Kind of a Modern Sonnet 


J. Michael Brown 


11 


Haughty Woman 


Tommy Harper 


11 


Summer on the Farm 


Gerry Provence 


12 


Purple Iris 


Anne Marie Brasier 


14 


Ogeechee 


Lloyd Newberry 


15 


Gypsy Feet 


Elaine Hall 


16 


Prescriptions 


Melba Nelson Moore 


16 


Bottles 


Jacquelynn Nessmith 


17 


Stares 


Phillip Lightfoot 


18 


The Martini 


John B. Hoist 


19 


Seize the Day 


Katy Pace Byrd 


20 


Turnings 


Jane Rampton 


20 


Algebra 


Gerry Provence 


21 


Sliding Board 


Lisa Berry 


21 


The Vacation 


Joe Hul 


22 


Nobody's Home 


Barbara Wilkes 


23 


Sleight of Hand 


Steve Usher 


24 


The Deadline Be Damned 


Michael Eugene Bowman 


25 


The Call of a Triton 


Joan Lehon 


25 


God's Grey Earth 


Adrian 


25 


A Night of Lights 


Joan Lehon 


26 


Paris Traffic 


John B. Hoist 


26 



Cover photograph: Stairway, Jacquelynn Nessmith 



W3f 



Tied Up 


Ami Parkerson 


27 


Colors 


Jason S. Richardson 


28 


Tybee Tides 


Joan Lehon 


28 


Frame 


Jane Rampton 


29 


The Mirror 


Christina Van Dyke 


29 


I Damn Thee, I Curse Thee 






My Pale Tormentor 


Dane Creamer 


30 


Contemplation 


Jane Rampton 


30 


The Innocents 


Julie Scott 


30 


(or Maybe) 


S. Vann 


31 


Dad's Forty 


Laura S. Green 


31 


Liquid Fixation 


J. Michael Brown 


31 


Europa 


Michael Eugene Bowman 


32 


Lucerne 


Dianne Daniels 


32 


The Perpetuation of the Patriarchy 






in A Raisin in the Sun 


Frances C. Petrasek 


33 


Dreams I've Forgotten 


Wendi Addis 


36 


Prayer for a Rapist 


Katy Pace Byrd 


36 


Crooked Cathedral 


Mike Torrance 


37 


Pain, Distance and Time 


L. Kelly Waters 


38 


Woman Throwing a Cast Net 


Andrew H. Lentini 


39 


Potentially Nobody 


Doug Walker 


40 


The Door 


Jacquelynn Nessmith 
WW 


42 


Quelle heure est-il? 


Lynn Wilson 


43 


Doctor's Visit 


Gayle Whitaker 


44 


One Fish, Two Fish 


Kathy Whitney 


45 


My Little Girl 


Joe Lee 


46 


Rose 


Tommy Harper 


48 


Inspiration 


Tobias A. Brasier 


49 


Moribund 


Jason S. Richardson 


50 


Passageway 


Lisa Berry 


51 


Dear Sweet Mom 


N] 


52 


Sestina of the Sea 


Erica Sue Moore 


55 


#14 Abercorn 


Bill Gebhart 


56 


Savannah Lady 


Rhonda Wingate 


59 




Tide to Nature 
Joan Lehon 



The moving sun-shapes on the spray, 
The sparkles where the brook was flowing, 
Pink faces, plightings, moon-lit May, 
These were the things we wished would stay; 
But they were going. 



Going and Staying 
Thomas Hardy 



Traces of Morning: An engram of a dawning 
NJ 

Bittersweet memories traced in a tear 

from my eye, 

the beauty in the sound and the rhythm 

of your innermost sigh, 

lips upon lips, ear to ear, palm against 

palm, touching, touching, ever so near. 

Fingers trace lightly across your navel 

in the morning and I told you it was my 

dream, 

I held you and watched you and pinched 

myself to be certain it was real, 

Oh, the feel. 

The soft and tender skin, fingertips 

dipping in the valley and rising again ... 

over and over and over. 

My dream came true lying there with and 

holding you. 

Touching, touching, ever so near. Palm 

against palm, ear to ear, lips upon 

lips, navel to navel. 

The beauty in the sound and the rhythm 

of your innermost sigh, 

Bittersweet memories traced in a tear 

from my eye. 




Negative Flower 
Daria Lucree 

6 




Passages of Life 
Allison B. Owen 



Faceless Shadow 
Joe Goldstein 

I know that I don't know you. 
I know that you don't know me. 
Still in my mind I have a fantasy. 

I would like to be with you 

down by the river on a full moon night, 

I would like to see your face 

bathed in lunar light. 

And all that you would see of me 
would be a faceless shadow 
watching silently. 

Of course, I'd vanish into the air. 
You'd never know that I was there. 
Ifs not that you would really care — 

No, not that you'd really even care. 
7 



Untitled (for jill) 
P.S. Byrd 

— Look — 

into the setting sun, autumn. 

I see you there 

in golden rays I see reflected 

— Your hair — 

— Frosted morning — 

snow covered rose on Gaea's hips 

snow white flesh beframe 

— Your lips — 

— Rain drenched day — 
not long one sighs 
for so I'll see the clear blue in 
— Your eyes — 

— Midsummer's heat — 

I'll persevere 

sun glistening moisture drops 

shimmering 

drawing 

— You near — 

— A weathered hymn — 

I sing of thee. 




Little Red Riding Hood 
Lisa Berry 



8 



The Bed 

Deborah S. Brown 



They were married shortly after the 
War. Times were good. The soldiers were 
coming back home and life would resume. 
President Eisenhower promised happy times 
were here again. New home construction 
was at an all time high. My parents were 
among the first to build their dream home 
too. There were peaceful, slow summer days 
listening to the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra on 
the radio, as new wives ironed their husbands' 
white cotton shirts. Electric oscillating fans 
hummed along blowing warm bursts of air 
across the rooms. A nice tall glass of iced tea 
was never too far away on those steamy hot 
Southern afternoons. 

Before long, their first child came. She 
was so beautiful. Her skin was the creamiest 
white and her big brown eyes sparkled with 
personality. She had the daintiest fingers and 
toes. Someday she would surely become a 
prima ballerina or a concert pianist. Her 
mother often looked down at her curly-topped 
perfection and said, "She's just like me." What 
more could one ask for? "A girl for me, a boy 
for you. Oh, how happy we will be." The new 
song on the radio said it all. 

The baby girl's father was strikingly 
handsome, the eldest son of an old-line 
Southern family. He was the musical, artistic 
one. He was a child prodigy. He was difficult. 
They sent him near and far to develop his gift. 
To say he was overindulged would not be 
inaccurate. Everything came easily to this 
charming boy wonder. 

"Now," he said was the right time for 
a son. They made ready for the boy child that 
would make life complete. It never occurred 
to him that he might not get what he expected. 
She was so naive that she believed his every 
word and command. A new wing was added 
to the house for the darling child that would 
carry on the very respected family name. 

It was many years before I asked any 
questions. I rememoer the dark olive green 
wallpaper with the cowboys on it, as if it were 
yesterday. The dark brown crib and dresser 
cast forbidding shadows on the wall. I 
remember on many occasions waking in "his" 
room, calling for Emma, my nanny. I loved 
her dearly and knew she would save me from 
the dark. She was a large woman. Her big, 



strong, black arms would lift me to her huge 
bosom and rock me until all my fears went 
away. She smelled of the sweetest sunshine. 
Her bleached white uniform was always 
ironed crisp and clean. Her gold-edged teeth 
twinkled at me when she smiled. 

There were times when Emma wasn't 
there to lift me from my crib. The floor made 
deep groaning sounds. Sometimes I heard 
my sister laughing in the distance. I tried 
many times to escape this prison only to find 
wooden boards placed along the top of the 
crib to keep me in. I would lie in hot puddles 
of tears burning my cheeks as I gave in to 
exhausted sleep. My throat was parched 
from crying so long. 

Time passed, and as I grew the crib 
became too small. One special day I heard 
loud piercing noises coming from my dreaded 
room. I walked to the door and peeked in, as 
only an inquisitive three-year-old can do. The 
room looked as if the good fairy had come 
and transformed it. The walls seemed to 
almost disappear in the lightest shade of pink. 
The pink and white gingham curtains almost 
floated from the windows. The most beautiful 
gold and white princess bed, just like my 
sister's, sat in the place of the old crib. On top 
of the matching white dresser there was a 
beautiful pink lamp. It was a doll dressed in 
ruffles, holding a parasol that concealed the 
bulb. The bedspread had tiny poodle dogs 
dancing across with bows on their ears. A 
round fluffy rug was placed in the center of 
the room waiting for my little toes to sink into 
it. 

The first night was filled with many 
warnings: "Do not get out of your bed, do not 
fall out of your bed, and do not jump on your 
bed." I never wanted to leave this oeautiful 
haven. This was a dream come true. I feared 
the bed might not be there in the morning. I 
held my arms above my head on the plump 
new pillow. I tried not to fall asleep. The open 
windows allowed the smell of newly cut grass 
and pink paint to envelop me. The crickets 
and frogs sang songs of love to me. Stars 
twinkled their reflection in my dresser mirror. 
They looked like fireflies dancing in the night. 
Warm, gentle, peaceful sleep cuddled me. I 
was a girl, too. ■ 



Workout 
Gayle Whitakcr 

When she entered the room with its merciless mirrors and 
machines of torture and packed with the women, some gabby, 
some silent, some sitting alone with a pensive 
expression, and other still prepping their 
outfits for viewing, and each of them 
garbed in the de rigueur colors of 
black mixed with neon, and white Nike 
Airs, and all of their legs so 
toned and eye-popping, and waists waspish-sized, 
with no hips much to speak of, and arms that would 
never be jiggly-jelly, their hair that smoothed back 

into blond ponytails with little-girl hair bows, 
and engine-red nails that could leave a bad scratch, 



she knew that this bevy 
was in this for keeps, 
to sit-ups and leg-lifts 
crunches, with sweat 
drops from an eave, 
their fats and their 
a pulse that was 
So, quietly 
out the door 
her uneasiness, 
misery 



of athletic beauties 
a life-long commitment 
and push-ups, and 
dripping off like the 
and endlessly counting 
carbs, while taking 
never too high, 
backing her way 
before any noticed 
she ended her 
before it began. 



W 



Kind of a Modern Sonnet 
J. Michael Brown 



such beauty in a girl I've never seen 

hair cascades down her back like precious gold 

eyes bluer than the skies have ever been 

surely formed from some Greek goddess' mold 

lips more red than any ruby on land 

her body is smooth and brown from the sun 

I feel this need to take hold of her hand 

so I ask her where such beauty comes from; 

she smiles and says "my teeth are all fake 

my hair is from a gallon of Clorox 

my eyes are brown but I got new contacts 

I got this tan by lying in a bed 

you look right nice yourself if I may say 

what are you doing on next Saturday?" 



<Vf**V/tfV 



££/7 



Haughty Woman 

Tommy Harper 





if;\f*\f. 



u 



Summer on the Farm 

Gerry Provence 



One of my earliest memories is of 
playing with my brother Jan on the front 
porch amid family and neighbors. Both 
barefoot and wearing only pull-on pants in 
the summer heat, Jan was three years old and 
I was five. When Daddy called me over, I 
stood expectantly as he tilted his head back, 
peered down through his glasses and touching 
me lightly on the chest said: ''What is this 
right here?" I ran to find my discarded shirt, 
which had been innocently tossed aside. 

One Sunday morning, Jan and I were 
in the front room where Daddy and others 
were visiting. Mama and our older sisters 
were preparing dinner. As Daddy pulled Jan 
between his knees into the circle of his arms, 
I attempted to back in alongside Jan. Quietly, 
gruffly, Daddy said: "You go on out of here." 
I raced to the kitchen. 

My parents were different in 
temperament but consistent in their 
differences. Mama did not seem to mind 
noise and playfulness from her children as, 
dressed in a homemade cloth bonnet, sensible 
shoes, beige cotton stockings and an apron 
over her long-sleeved cotton print dress, she 
worked. Mama gardened, raised eight 
children, sewed and patched our clothing, 
canned vegetables, crocheted, quilted and 
tatted. Patient and even-tempered, she did 
not abide sass or profanity. Once my sister, 
Modrea, and I were arguing, when to add 
strength to my case I shouted, "Blame it all, I 
know it's so!" With a swift swat to my 
backside Mama taught me not to swear. 

Daddy, however, was usually cross 
and stern so we mostly stayed out of his way. 
I remember him sitting forward, with his 
elbows resting on his knees, occasionally 
ejecting a stream of Bull of the Woods tobacco 
juice as shavings curled off the knife blade 
and fell between his feet. Daddy, a whittler, 
whittled on the arms of the front porch rockers, 
his thumbnails and sticks. On each thumbnail 
down the middle from top to bottom he 
fashioned a split. Over six feet tall, of portly 
build, he wore long-sleeved shirts, a small 
soft-brimmed straw hat and khaki pants 



tucked into high boots, which laced to just 
below his knees. 

Mama's mother was my favorite 
person. She married Grandpa when she was 
fourteen and he twenty-eight, and they had 
ten children, one whom died in infancy and 
another, Florence, who died from burns after 
falling into the open fireplace. Grandma wore 
her hair in braids coiled into a bun on the back 
of her head. She was permanently stooped 
due, she said, from not standing up straight 
when she was young. She addressed me and 
all other children courteously, including a 
ma am or sir. 

In the summer we worked in the barn 
loft, which smelled of the mules, Kate and 
Ida, stabled below, newly cured tobacco, corn 
and mice. Manure added an unoffensive 
pungent odor. High and flat, the ceiling 
sloped downward to the chutes for corn and 
hay. Just inside the back stairs were remnants 
of the previous year's peanut hay. On the 
opposite end, two four-foot doors opened 
outward just tall enough for a man to stand 
upright, framing sky, tree tops, birds perched 
on power lines and the far end of the neighbor' s 
cornfield. 

Tobacco stored in the loft between 
harvest and market had been kiln-dried in the 
tobacco barn, the doors then left open so that 
hopefully the brittle leaves had absorbed 
sufficient moisture to be pliable — "in order." 
When not "in order" and the barn was needed 
for the next cooking, everyone in the 
household got up extra early to form a 
conveyor belt to the sweet potato patch, 
spreading the tobacco on the dew-moistened 
vines where, after breakfast, it was gathered 
and placed in the loft. Getting the tobacco 
ready for market consisted of taking it off the 
sticks, where it had been attached with string 
in "hands" of three or four leaves and placing 
it in sheets made of burlap fertilizer bags. 

Newspapers were spread on the loft 
floor before placing the tobacco in continuous 
stacks down each side leaving room for 
"string-horses" in the middle, where in two's, 
family members removed leaves from the 



22 



sticks and the string from the leaves. Sorted 
by quality, the leaves were then stacked along 
the walls, stem ends outward. Empty sticks 
were tossed out the door to later be freed of 
string remnants and stored in the stickhouse. 

The loft could be entered through the 
wide hay door by climbing up the gate or by 
the stairs through the stable. The hay door 
was a favorite with children, who with a 
running start sailed out, just clearing the stick 
pile. It was also great fun to climb higher 
through the hole in the ceiling and out into the 
roof of the side shelter to be spooked by dust 
and the far dark reaches under the eaves. 

Once when I was ten, E.C., an older 
brother, Daddy and I were in the loft sheeting 
tobacco for market. We handed the tobacco to 
Daddy as he knelt in the middle of the sheet, 
where he placed a beginning fan of tobacco in 
the middle and then handful by handful 
formed a circle with the stems outward, his 
knees pressing the fragrant, colorful leaves 
into a compact unit. 

Silently in the sweltering heat we 
walked back and forth handing the tobacco to 
Daddy as he moved around the circle, sweat 
dripping from his nose. Suddenly, each time 
I presented a handful of tobacco, something 
was wrong with it. Daddy grumbled, "Hold 
it this way, so I can get to it." "Can't you keep 
the hands all the same size?" "Why don't you 
watch what you are doing?" It was impossible 
to know what to do. No child in our household 
ever deliberately and with foreknowledge 
disobeyed Daddy. E.C., a grown man who 
had been in the War and fought in Germany, 
spoke up quietly, not unkindly, "Why don't 
you just leave her alone?" 

The funnies in the newspapers under 
the tobacco stacks were an endless distraction. 
Also distracting was E.J., a neighbor's son, 
who stopped by the loft late one afternoon all 
dressed up. As he stood silhouetted in the 
doorway my older sisters were convulsed 
with giggles. After he had gone they said, 
"You could see Christmas. He didn't have on 
a sign of drawers." 

Brother Ellie, number six to my seven, 



chased me away and ordered me around. 
One afternoon while working in the loft, I 
went to get a drink of water and was dawdling 
on the way back. Ellie tried to force me back 
on the job and had my head under his arm 
when Mama happened by telling him, "You 
leave your sister alone and get on back to 
work." 

Breaking for dinner at noon, the girls 
washed up and set the table. The boys cared 
for the animals if they had been used or 
simply washed up. A standard summer menu 
was creamed corn, sliced tomatoes, peas and 
butterbeans with okra steamed on top and 
removed before serving, rice, biscuits, 
hoecakes of cornbread, iced tea and dessert of 
cake baked with fresh blackberries picked 
from the fence row or ice cream made in extra 
icetrays in the refrigerator. When Uncle Pat, 
one of Mama's brothers, ate with us, he would 
refuse the ice cream if fish was served. 
Because, he said, if he ate fish and ice cream at 
the same meal it would kill him. 

We sat on homemade benches at the 
homemade table covered with a patterned 
oilcloth. A chair was placed at each end, one 
of which had a black and white cowhide 
bottom. Usually, enough was cooked midday 
so that the evening meal required only baking 
bread, fritters or sometimes a main course — 
such as sausage and tomato soup. Or, a 
special dessert of apple butter made by 
whipping a couple of egg whites with a fork 
until stiff, adding sugar and the spooned 
pulp of one or two fresh apples and eaten 
with biscuits or fritters. 

When it was just family we each had 
our place. When others were present, only 
Daddy had his place. Places extended to 
chicken parts. One day the preacher came to 
dinner and as the chicken was passed, I 
helpfully said, "Nobody take the liver. That's 
Daddy's." Leftover food was placed in a safe 
to be served at supper. Dishes were washed 
in a pan with water heated on the stove or 
dipped from the watertank built into the stove 
and were not rinsed except once on a cold 
morning when Mama got up to cook breakfast 



13 



and found the plates frozen together. My 
older sisters had done such a lick and promise 
drying job that hot water was needed to 
separate them. 

Early on, water was drawn from a well 
in the back yard in which a catfish could 
sometimes be seen swimming when the sun 
was just right. Later, water was piped in to 
the kitchen and to the watershelf on the back 
porch. The kitchen along with the rest of the 
house had no central heat and was not 
insulated. There was only the outside wall 
between the kitchen and the elements. Mama 
once found a chicken snake hanging in the 
kitchen rafters. 

When my children gather at my home 
with their children, frequently sharing tales 



of how it was when they were growing up, I 
sometimes fail to recognize my role in their 
stories. Many stories are shared which I do 
not remember happening — as they are told, if 
at all. 

Yet, at other times when alone, I 
recognize Mama in the mirror and in those 
pastimes which I find most comfortable. 

Recently, Jeanne, a cousin, mailed each 
of our family a copy of a genealogy chart 
showing the arrival of our ancestor, Thomas 
Heckel, from Holzkirk, Germany at Ebenezer, 
Georgia, on the Third Swabian Transport on 
November 23, 1752. In discussing this and 
our more recent heritage, I discovered that 
Daddy's father, too, was a whittler. 




Purple Iris 
Anne Marie Brasicr 



14 



Ogeechee 
Lloyd Newberry 

Deep in the hills of the county of Green 

A Princess is born, a sparkling stream. 

Unpretentious and small, a rivulet so clean, 

Providing promises of nourishment and habitats serene. 

So beautiful she flows, loved by all it would seem, 

Georgia's Princess of Rivers, the Ogeechee, pristine. 

Downward she grows swelling on to the main, 
Through Georgia's heartland and coastal plain. 

From Crawfordville to Shoals to Louisville, 
Down to Millen, Rocky Ford, and Richmond Hill. 

Two hundred fifty miles of eddy and lee, 
Through the marshes of Bryan and into the sea. 

Through swamps primeval and forests sublime, 

The ancient cypress and loblolly pine 

Share turf with the hickory and the oak on high, 

While in dark pools below, spider lilies lie 

In beds of fragrance; if s honeysuckle time, 

With fiery splashes by the trumpet vine. 

For many a critter the river is home. 

Two playful otters leave an alligator alone. 

A palette of colors, the wood duck swims by 

A shad, whose destiny to spawn and then die. 

Redbreasts in the morning or raccoons at night 

Provide a young boy's or an old man's delight. 

Often in spate or parched to a trickle, 

No impediment impinges her right to be fickle. 

Spinning no turbines and carrying no freight, 

The lady remains a pampered darling to date. 

So beautiful she flows, loved by all it would seem, 

Georgia's Princess of Rivers, the Ogeechee, pristine. 



15 



Gypsy Feet 
Elaine Hall 

Wandering feet that can not rest 

roving heart that beats the breast 

Longing for a peace unknown 

searching always — no where home 

Out of place and lost in time 

a lilting song that lacks a rhyme 

Pain cries out and anger heeds 

tears are shed for thoughtless deeds 

Confusion calls to the beast within, 

nature's child, free of sin 
Ensnared in a self-made web of lies 

bound by honor, tied by pride 

Love and family beckon close 

but wanderlust is felt the most 

The loner's way is hard to go 

but gypsy feet forever roam. 



Prescriptions 
Melba Nelson Moore 

I stopped by the drug store as I was on the go, 
To buy some medicine, I needed it so. 
I bought earrings, lipstick, a can of hair spray, 
A garden hose, a lawn chair, and floral clay, 
A typewriter ribbon, and a dinner plate, 
Plus a candy bar, and a rock and roll tape. 
I got a broom and a mop, and a coffee pot, 
Some bedroom slippers, and a folding cot. 
I loaded my car as best I could, 
I had to tie some of it on the hood. 
As I made my way home I had a sick thought, 
There was something I needed I had not bought. 



16 







Bottles 
Jacquelynn Nessmith 



17 




Stares 
Phillip Lightfoot 



18 



The Martini 

John B. Hoist 

As Frank entered the kitchen from the 
garage he called, "Hi, Dear, I thought you 
were still out; what have you done with your 
car? It's not in the garage." 

Without turning from the sink Ann 
said, "Aren't you a bit late — like two hours?" 

"I had to work late, but what about 
your car?" 

Hugging him, Ann said, "Hmmm, is 
that a new after shave?" 

Breaking away, Frank said, "No, but 
one I haven't used for a long time. Your car?" 

"I called your office about an hour 
ago — no answer. I left it at Marie's. We went 
to Walmart in her car. What's that on your 
shoulder? Hmmm, a long blonde hair. Not 
mine." 

"Why on earth did you leave your car 
at Marie's?" 

"I was in a hurry to get home to you, so 
she dropped me off here." 



"You had to come right past Marie's to 
get here from Walmart. What's wrong with 
the car?" 

"Nothing. I'll pick it up the next time 
I go out. Where were you when I called 
you?" 

"I told you. I had to work late. I was 
out with a client. I'll take you to get your car 
in the morning." 

"No, not tomorrow. I'm not 
planning to go out tomorrow. A client? 
Wearing Chanel Number Five?" 

"O.K. I'll drive by in the morning to 
make sure it hasn't been hit or stolen." 

"No need. Marie said she'd put it in 
her garage." 

"O.K. Want a drink before dinner?" 

"Yes, thanks. The usual." 



19 



Turnings 
Jane Rampton 




Winner of the Lillian Spencer Award for the Best Poem in Calliope 

Seize the Day 

Katy Pace Byrd 
The whole life is the tender touch, the swan 
Dive, the mountain climb, the music note, the 
Baby's cry, the dog's tongue, the sunbeam'd eye, 
The throbbing dance that brings the gulping throat. 
The half life is diminishment, the less 
Of less, the crib bereft and a smaller 
Box, the invalid bed and palsied will, 
The open-doored cage where the bird still stays. 
The shelf life is the self put up, the use- 
By-when or toss it out, the unread book, 
The unwrit poem, the hidden heart, the wasted 
Womb, the savings bank that's never spent. 
Clear choice, but fear stops risky life's embrace. 
The tiger waits behind all three doors. 

20 



Algebra 
Gerry Provence 

Algebra, be still that I may speak. 
As I follow with confidence down your seemingly logical path, your 

steps like quick-silver elude my thoughts. 
What seems orderly and precise in class at morning is borne away on 

the wind at night. 
On test day you are stranger still in judge's robes. 

What will in time, I pray, be mine are but skittering teasers. 

Each day I witness teacher corral your gamboling trick as he runs 

you through, slowly, revealing secrets by name and place. 

With him you are docile, obedient, correct. 

I am but your plaything as with poltergeist delight you make sport of 

me when out of teacher's sight. 

In innocence I have believed that to snare even one barb would bring 

you into my net. 

And, following plan, have marched you, constant and variable, back and 

forth, to and fro in parade over time and space. 

And, you were to let go of frolic and introduce me to your relatives. 

And, I to thrill to family secrets. 
Algebra, mysterious spirit, hold still won't you? I'm not finished yet. 




Sliding Board 
Lisa Berry 

21 



The Vacation 

Joseph Hul 



Sam and I both arrived at about a 
quarter till, so we went and burned one out by 
the dumpster. At about six we flicked on the 
pumps and the lights. Some early birds came 
by and filled up, and Sam was topping some 
lady off when we saw it. The beautiful orange 
light beamed at us. It first touched the 
wrecker's boom, then the truck itself, and 
finally sparkled in every drop of rain that fell 
overnight. 

"A mornin' like this makes you want 
to go camping." 

"Yeah, ifd be nice to just take about a 
week off and just go." 

"Right. Like George is just gonna go 
up to you and say, 'Go ahead Sam, take a 
week off. I'll be glad to pump gas for you all 
week.'" 

We both laughed at the idea of George 
all dressed up in his suit, stepping out of his 
new 'vette and pumping gas. 

"I don't care what George'd say, the 
sun hasn't been out for weeks and I just can't 
stand it. Anyway, if I'm gone he'll just make 
you pump the gas." 

The sky had about half cleared by now, 
and it looked like we were finally going to 
have nice weather. Buoyed by the atmospheric 
conditions, we went at our work with 
enthusiasm. I changed about three or four 
tires, and Sam got the first road call. 

At about 7:30 Sam came back with 
McDonald's, so we had some breakfast. The 
sky had completely cleared by now, and we 
could feel the first effects of the warming sun. 
We ate impatiently, not knowing when or if 
we would ever be able to enjoy the sun again. 
Sam mentioned the prospects of camping 
over and over. 

"You're just makin' things worse, Sam. 
All this talk about where and who with. Now 
you're even making me think about takin' 
off." 



"Man, I just can't stand workin' 
anymore. All I've been thinkin' about lately 
has been the Pine Barrens or the Water Gap. I 
used to go to the lake, then on to Raccoon 
Ridge in half a day." 

"Yeah, Raccoon Ridge. Once you hike 
past that you're in the national park and 
there's nobody there. You don't even have to 
camp at the sites after the ridge." 

"I remember a time I was up there I 
really felt like an Indian. I was walkin' along 
and lookin' out over the Jersey side, and I 
caught some lights way out in the distance. 
Ifs like God's country." 

"Yeah, 'til the fog lifts and you catch a 
view of those smokestacks." 

"When I'm up there I can even enjoy 
them." 

On that note the phone rang. This one 
was going to be my road call, and it looked as 
though I was going to have to tow it in. Some 
friend of George just got his car fixed here and 
now it won' t start. Smoothing ruffled feathers, 
that's my specialty. 

The call took a pretty long time. The 
guy had a Benz, so I had to dolly the wheels 
and use a board and blanket on the bumper. 
When I finally got back, the sun was already 
thinking about hiding behind some clouds. I 
could see George in the distance, and he 
really seemed to be working Sam over. I was 
hoping that he didn't find his stash. As I 
pulled the car in, he started heading for me. I 
expected the worst, since he was at my door 
before I was even parked. I could see the 
thunderstorm starting to brew again. 

"Don't even tell me we screwed up on 
Raymond's tune-up." 

'It seems to be his starter; he's got 
good juice from the battery." This was a good 
sign, since we didn't touch his electricals. 

"Well thank God for that. Just put the 
car in Bob's bay. He had the last job on it." 



22 



"All right." I was happy to let Bob deal 
with the car. The last thing that I wanted to do 
was deal with that guy again. 

Sam wanted to take a couple of road 
calls, but George wasn't going to let him. He 
just told him to tell me to take them. The rain 
started to fall. Sometimes you thank God for 
road calls, and sometimes you curse him. I 
knew that Sam and I were both cursing him 
now. 

The rain was really coming down now. 
As I changed a woman's tire, the cold water 
was dripping off my nose. All I really wanted 
to do at that point was to just go home. Pulling 
into the station, the rain was coming down so 
hard that I could barely see the lights. I 
parked the truck, got the tire out, and rolled it 
to the tire machine. Luckily, yesterday was 



uniform day, and I could go into the back to 
change my clothes. As I was putting my shirt 
on, Bob came into the room. 

"Well, Sam's gone," he said matter-of- 
factly. 

"Gone! What do you mean Sam's 
gone?" 

"George just kind of went over the 
edge and fired him," he said in monotone. 

I was speechless. I don't know whether 
it was out of envy or fear, but I had wished 
that George had fired me instead. I wondered 
about that for a minute, and then the bell 
rang, so I grabbed a jacket and walked toward 
the pumps. George was already out there in 
his nice suit, soaked and looking miserable. I 
thought of how lucky Sam really was. 




Nobody's Home 
Barbara Wilkes 



23 




Sleight of Hand 

Steve Usher 

24 



The Deadline Be Damned 
Michael Eugene Bowman 

With three spins of the globe, 
I saw bronze made from gold. 
The brand of "A" was made a "C" 
When time became a tyranny 
Over thought a deadline rolled. 

Each spin exacted toll; 
Quality killed fivefold, 
Was this decay or robbery? 
The deadline be damned! 

Jeweled thought may be your goal, 
But on spins the mighty globe, 
Which some behold with majesty. 
Woe to the student found guilty 
Of tardy thought made of gold. 
The deadline be damned! 



God's Grey Earth 
Adrian 

Let me tell you about my vacation. 

We went up in a ship to Moon station, 

and the world was so pretty from there, 

you could see everything. 

The seas so dark and grey 

against the yellow forests, 

and the clouds, Oh! The clouds, 

are such a pretty green. 

Then later, the best sights of all 

are long after nightfall; 

when all you can see 

is the sparkling blue from the craters. 




The Call of a Triton 
Joan Lehon 



25 




A Night of Lights 
Joan Lchon 



Paris Traffic 
John B. Hoist 

Traffic rules are becoming standardized in the civilized world, 
So you might think you could drive easily and safely any place 
Such as, Washington, New York, Montreal, Mexico City, Younameit. 

But when it comes to Paris, 
The normally defensive Maginot Line Frenchman shifts 
Gears to the offense in the well founded belief 
That the best defense 

Is a good offense, and the custom, 
Universally accepted by Parisian drivers, that 
They have the right of way over those on their left and must give 

Way 
To those on their right, 
Leading to the firm belief that it is possible 
To-drive-through-the-entire-tity-with-the-left-window- 

blacked-xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-out 
Without having an accident, proves the maxim 
That to 

Avoid losing your right of way, 
Never get caught looking at the drivers of the cars on your left. 

26 



WW 




#a» 



/h, 51 








Ami Parkerson 



Seasons of blankness as of snow, 
The silent bleed of a world decaying, 
The moan of multitudes in woe, 
These were the things we wished would go; 
But they were staying. 

Going and Staying 
Thomas Hardy 



27 



Colors 
Jason S. Richardson 



A Green Man enjoys the same 
blue sky as does an Orange Man. 
A Green Man enjoys the same 
blue ocean as does an Orange Man. 
A Green Man enjoys the same 
blue eyes as does an Orange Man. 
But a Green Man and an Orange 
Man will not enjoy one another. 



Tybee Tides 
Joan Lchon 





28 




29 




1 Damn Thee, I Curse Thee My Pale 

Tormentor 

Dane Creamer 

I damn thee, I curse thee my pale 

tormentor; 

My manhood, with a mumbled word 

you have taken. 

Ignorance, loud as trumpets, blasts 

from your vocal chords. 

O, how I ponder shields and wars and 

bloody shores. 

Ah, but is not my obsession my own 

curse? 

At night I sleep and dream of my 

progeny's birth; 

No longer mine, no longer mine; 

Ghosts I see at midnight chime. 



With my new found course, I shall 
embrace the spring sun — 



Contemplation 
Jane Rampton 



But still I damn thee, I curse thee- 
puritan one. 



the 



The Innocents 
Julie Scott 

I hear a man mutter in the language 

of his kingdom 

A broken umbrella his staff, an imaginary 

friend his court jester 

I see a pregnant young woman sitting 

with her back to the cold brick wall 

rubbing her unborn child with a dirty, 

yet dainty hand 

She hums "Jesus Loves Me" and tucks her 

greasy hair behind her ear 

I feel the rough hand of an old, wrinkled man 

and turn quickly to see a child aging 

by the second 

A little boy in clothes not made for him, 

still he cherishes them 

I turn to run from the motley face and 

running nose 

only to awake 



30 



( or Maybe ) 
S. Vann 

Paranoid 

(or Maybe a-nnoyed) 

The roar in my head, 

The Screaming voices of past frustrations. 

(or it May be the hum of the industrial capacity air 

conditioner.) 

Made louder by the Silence of benevolent strangers 

(or there may Be a chill in the air) 

that makes me cold. 

(Maybe they are not so kind.) 



Liquid Fixation 

J. Michael Brown 

I never had an idea 
That I'd miss you so 
You told me you'd go 
I never showed my fear 
Now it seems so long ago 
The curtain closed the show 
I shed so many tears — 
My life became a haze 
So many empty days 
Their talk burned my ears 
I need to change my ways 
But it's a habit that stays 
I'm losing. 



Dad 's Forty 
Laura S. Green 




31 



Europa 
Michael Eugene Bowman 

"i ou were born a dowdy barbarian 

With your bloodstained swaddling clothes covering 

From Gibraltar's Rock to Ural peaks grand, 

From Svalbard's iced-land to Malta shining 

Weak were your limbs which grew to unveiling: 

Fairest Greek, Celt, Latin, Slav, and Teuton. 

Thenceforth, you struck yourself; scaring alone. 

Through the landscape tottered your limbs swinging; 

Till worthy dirt was grasped and sat upon. 

Tenacious limbs dug with clench stiffening. 

Do you hear, dear Europa? 




Lucerne 

Dianne Daniels 



First, your eyes opened the Athenians; 

Your brain imploded with knowledge clinging. 

Then, Asia first shoved your breast with Persians; 

Your anger poured while you stood unflinching. 

Out grew your muscle with Roman swelling 

To impel you and all with escutcheons, 

Till again Asia wrapped your throat with Huns. 

Prostrate you lay till Hilda's offering. 

Dazed, you embraced Christ and crucifixion, 

And stretching limbs became obsessed with kings. 

Can you hear, dear Europa? 

Mohammed drenched you in Spain and Balkans, 
Till from Tours came your son's hammer blowing 
Blood across the Mediterranean. 
Then your eyes widened with your dress beaming; 
You slung your genes the world over, seizing 
For greed's sake, America's gold and lawn. 
On Africa's wrist you placed chains upon. 
Master of the world's seas, you sailed, hounding 
All life ungrasped by your fist of iron 
Oblivious to the vengeance kindling. 
Will you hear, dear Europa? 



Now your clouded eyes face the blood-red dawn, 
Where demons and avenging lions spawn. 
Lay down your jewels old lady, pale and white 
And reach for righteous spirit long since gone, 
Or succumb to death's wind and endless night. 
Are you deaf, dear Europa? 



32 



The Perpetuation of the Patriarchy in A Raisin in the Sun 

Frances C. Petrasek 



Lorraine Hansberry's A Raisin in the 
Sun is lauded for its examination of black 
issues such as African American identity, 
African political issues, family interpersonal 
relationships, and class collisions, and it is 
through the Younger family that we learn, 
additionally, about the pursuit of dreams. 
Moreover, the author touches on women's 
issues, but these are of minor importance in 
comparison to the aforementioned. The 
character Beneatha is an accomplishment 
when she is viewed from 1959, the year in 
which the play was first produced. From a 
1991 perspective, however, she fails to 
exemplify a fully liberated woman. While 
Hansberry does challenge the reigning 
patriarchal ideology, patriarchal stereotypes 
and ideals abound and are supported 
throughout the work through not only the 
male characters, but also via Mama, Ruth, 
and to a minimal degree, Beneatha. 

Our initial glimpse into the play 
acquaints us with a typical Younger family 
morning routine. An alarm clock sounds, yet 
it is Ruth who first arises and who must 
arouse the sleeping males of the family, as 
well as prepare and serve breakfast, ready her 
son and her husband for the coming day, and 
groom herself — in that order. Her grooming 
consists of "wiping her face with a moist 
cloth and running her fingers through her 
hair" (25) before donning an apron over her 
housecoat. Thus, she is prepared to attack a 
basketful of severely wrinkled clothes. 
Additionally, she is the primary, however 
much ignored, disciplinarian. She tells her 
son after he finishes his breakfast that he "can 
get over there and make up [hislbed" (29). He 
folds the bedding into a heap. Travis is a ten 
year old boy who not only must be told what 
to do, but who virtually always is set free of 
responsibility through his grandmother. 
Mama dismisses the sloppy job with her 



comment to Ruth, "he tries, don't he?" (40) 
Mama folds the bedding. Mama's act sends 
two primary messages to Travis. First, he 
does not have to do what he is urged to do 
because another, a female, will do it for him. 
Most importantly, he receives the message 
that he, in Mama's words, "aint supposed to 
know 'bout housekeeping" (40). Overriding 
Ruth's authority, Mama clearly teaches that 
domestic work is beneath a male child's 
"dignity;" it is woman's work. 

Mama, Ruth, and Beneatha suffer from 
cultural, social, and economic disabilities in a 
patriarchal society, as well as what Beneatha 
aptly dubs "acute ghetto-itis." It is Walter 
Younger who exemplifies from whence comes 
the oppression, though ironically it is these 
three women who help him to maintain his 
"masculinity." Mysogynistic in attitude, 
Walter blames his problems on being "tied to 
a race of women with small minds" (35), and 
on "ants who can't understand what it is the 
giant is talking about" (85). 

Walter's bitter attitude is best shown 
through his response to Ruth, who asks him 
why he doesn't hurry up and go into the 
banking business with his friends and stop 
talking about it. "Why? . . . 'Cause we [men] 
are tied up in a race of [female] people that 
don't know how to do nothing but moan, 
pray and have babies!" (87) Walter 
conveniently fails to acknowledge the male's 
fifty percent in reproduction. Furthermore, 
Walter perpetuates and undergirds negative 
attitudes within the family while role- 
modeling them for Travis. In Act I, Scene II, 
Ruth refuses Travis' request for fifty cents 
because they do not have it. Walter, eyes 
fixed on Ruth, doles out the sum to Travis and 
doubles it. After Travis leaves for school, 
Walter must beg carfare from Ruth after the 
previously mentioned "manly 7 ' act. Abreast 
with Mama, Walter simultaneously torpedoes 



33 



Ruth's authority and teaches Travis that it is 
the male who supplies the children with 
pleasures and fulfills their needs. Ruth, 
therefore, is negated from all cultural 
standpoints and becomes, in de Beauvoir's 
term, the "Other" or negative object (Richter, 
1066). Culturally, Walter is the defining and 
dominating "Subject" in the work. 

In terms of masculine and feminine, 
the Subject is virtually always active, 
dominating, adventurous , and rational, while 
the Other is passive, acquiescent, emotional 
and conventional. Mama as the Other plans 
and defines for Walter what is masculine and 
what it means to be "a man," most often by 
means of her deceased husband, Big Walter. 
Mama quotes Big Walter, who "always said 
being any kind of servant wasn't a fit thing for 
a man to have to be ... a man's hands was to 
make things, or to turn the earth with"(103). 
The concept of patriarch is upheld herein, as 
Mama most likely assumes that since Big 
Walter said that to serve wasn't fit for a man, 
he implied that servanthood is fitting for a 
woman. 

Ironically it is Mama's hands which 
"turn the earth," since she yearns for a garden 
and does so on a small scale with her potted 
plant. According to Big Walter's version of 
male, Mama is near-male and serves as a 
father-surrogate. Even more ironic, however, 
is that this excellent, fine Walter as an example 
of "man" is tainted with the fact that "there 
was plenty wrong with Walter Younger — 
hardheaded, mean, kind of wild with women" 
(45). The younger Walter's misogyny has its 
roots in his father, as Big Walter "sure loved 
his children . . . Always wanted them to have 
something"(45). That something, sadly, came 
only after his death, bypassed his wife as 
when he lived, only to slip through his male 
progeny's fingers. 

Big Walter's daughter, Beneatha, 



however proves the sole, though slightly 
weak, challenger to the male-dominated 
culture. From the play's outset, Beneatha 
rarely acts the subordinate. She does falter 
occasionally, but she succeeds greatly in 
asserting her cultural views, thereby upsetting 
the patriarchy. At the close of Act I, Scene II, 
Beneatha proclaims to Mama and Ruth that 
everybody had better understand that she is 
going to be a doctor, to which Mama adds, 
"God willing" (50). Beneatha contends that 
God is an idea which she does not accept, and 
further, that it is because of its own stubborn 
effort that the human race achieves. As 
penance for her argument, she receives a slap 
in the face from Mama, but as she explains to 
Ruth, "All the tyranny in the world will never 
put a God in the heavens!" (52) Beneatha's 
opinions seem crudely presented, but it is 
these powerful statements which buck the 
status quo and cause us to bristle, react, and 
consider. 

Beneatha's dictums by no means end 
with religion, as she discloses her political 
feelings to Mama in Act I, Scene II: "[Africans] 
need more salvation from the British and the 
French" (57). In Act I, Scene I, she talks about 
artistic freedom. Mama accuses her of flitting 
from one thing to another because, from year 
to year, Beneatha involves herself in interests 
which range from play-acting to photography. 
Flitting, however, is all in one's perspective as 
Beneatha points out, "I don't flit ... I 
experiment with different forms of expression 
... People have to express themselves one 
way or another" (48). Beneatha underscores 
the fact that it is important for women, as well 
as for men, to grow, discover and pursue their 
dreams. 

Beneatha, additionally, does not see 
marriage as her sole option in careers. A 
college student pursuing medicine, she dates 
two men, both also students. George 



34 



Murchison, son of a rich local family, and 
Joseph Asagai, a Nigerian, differ culturally, 
but their views on marriage and sex share 
similarities. "You're a nice looking girl ... all 
over," George tells her. "Guys aren't going to 
go for the atmosphere — they're going to go 
for what they see. Be glad for that" (90). On 
the other hand, Asagai wants Beneatha to 
marry him and go to Nigeria with him. Despite 
Ruth, who thinks that Beneatha is odd because 
she would not marry Murchison, "that pretty, 
rich thing" (49), Beneatha rises above these 
chain-laden options at the play's end. She 
and Walter exchange verbal barbs about 
whom Beneatha should marry. Though she 
toys with the idea of going to Africa, Beneatha 
chooses neither Asagai nor Murchison, and is 
least likely to choose a mate based solely on 
looks or money. In order to marry either 
George or Joseph, she would have to meet 
them on their terms. She does not, however, 
step down from her standards for the "comfort 
and security" the two boyfriends each offer 
through marriage. Through her refusal, 
Beneatha thumbs her nose at a tradition which 
dictates that if a woman marries after age 
twenty one, she is an "old maid." 

The author unfortunately limits 
Beneatha in her freedom and independence, 
and this particular character's major flaw is 
that she relies upon males financially. 
Murchison and Asagai pay for the evening 
out, understandably since they have money 
and she does not. There is, however, no 
mention of Beneatha' s part-time job. Her 
family supports her economically, thereby 
grooming her to expect the male to pay for her 
entertainment, education and meals. To 
Beneatha, males provide. Walter is the family 
member who inevitably, thanks to Mama, 



controls her medical school tuition, therefore 

WORKS CITED 

Richter, David, ed. The Critical Tradition. New York: St Martin's, 1989, 1063-1076 
Hansbury, Lorraine. A Raisin in the Sun. New York: Penguin, 1988. 

35 



controlling her dream unless she is willing to 
assume this responsibility herself. Walter 
loses the tuition money in a business 
proposition gone bad, but Beneatha' s response 
is to cave in. "Me? . . . Me? Me, I'm nothing," 
she emotionally reveals to Asagai. She bitterly 
contends that she has stopped caring, and 
that, "while I was sleeping ... people went 
right out and took the future right out of my 
hands!" (134) Asagai's wise words point out 
that there is "something wrong in a house . . . 
world . . . where all dreams . . . must depend 
upon the death of a man" (135). Regrettably, 
the apothegm ends with "a man" and not 
"anyone." Additionally, the saying fails to 
address the instances wherein dreams depend 
upon another, living or dead, man or woman. 
Beneatha does, however, have the 
attributes she needs to pursue her dreams 
independently and to dispute the patriarchal 
stereotypes of women, but the author, through 
her female characters, seems to 
simultaneously bring to light covert sexual 
biases while she internalizes and supports 
the reigning patriarchal ideology. Beneatha's 
attitude toward Walter's power cou Id amount 
to merely a temporary hindrance of her 
growing independence, but the character is 
not developed to this extent. Though Mama 
and Ruth are strong women, they spend their 
energy on helping others pursue and fulfill 
their dreams, while consciously or 
unconsciously perpetuating patriarchal 
ideology. The Younger family's move to 
Clybourne Park is a supposed cure to the 
prevailing "ghetto-itis," but Hansberry offers 
no resolution to the family's several other 
problems. While the work closely examines 
several cultural issues from the Black 
perspective, it only begins to examine feminist 
issues. ■ 



Dreams I've Forgotten 

\SVndi Addis 



Crooked Cathedral 
Mike Torrance 



Sometimes late at night 

Before the moon is full 
I dream of strange things 

Things other than I should. 

I dream of the Forbidden fruit, 
And the Journey before the Fall, 

And I wonder if the Story's truth 
Is really true at all. 

I dream of the plains of Kansas, 
And Dorothy with her dog. 

Ana wonder if she truly left home, 
Or was it a dream after all. 



I dream I travel to the moon 
And meet a handsome man there. 

He calls my name, takes my hand 
And runs his fingers through my hair. 

He whispers that he wants me 

And takes me violently. 
And when the deed is done 

He leaves me silently. 

And sometimes I dream the end 

Is very near for me, 
And then I wake and see the sun 

And remember none of these. 



Prayer for a Rapist 
Katy Pace Byrd 

Home that he may be invaded 
Strength that he may be overcome 
Light that he may curse the dark 
Joy that he may despair 
Faith that he may lose conviction 
Heaven that he may be damned. 



36 




37 



Pain, Distance and Time 

L. Kelly Waters 



The lure of "Neu tral Tones" by Thomas 
Hardy is in its subtle familiarity. Although 
the poem describes the breaking off of a 
relationship, the reader quickly finds the 
speaker is neither fondly nor bitterly recalling 
the event. By avoiding every sensory image 
except for sight, abstaining from definition, 
and coloring in neither bright nor dark tones, 
the author purposefully distances the reader 
from the event. The poem's appeal lies not in 
its allusion to lost love, but in the passing of 
pain with time. This pale scene reveals the 
aging of painful memories that occurs but 
each of us so often forgets. 

The first clue that the poem conveys 
something more than a painful memory is in 
the title. "Neutral Tones" immediately 
encourages the reader to postpone any 
positive or negative inferences until the author 
makes his meaning clear. In a sense we are 
left out rather than taken in. This is the first of 
many distancing devices. 

To describe the scene without placing 
the reader in it, the author creates images 
using the sense most commonly used from a 
distance: sight. Not only does the author 
avoid contact with the other senses, he 
methodically insures this isolation. We see a 
sun without warmth: "And the sun was white, 
as though chidden of God" (line 2). He 
portrays words as costly and attributes them 
with physical rather than acoustical 
characteristics: "And some words played 
between us to and fro/ On which lost the 
more by our love" (7-8). While smells are 
simply avoided, the dearth of tastes is re- 
enforced: "And a few leaves lay on the starving 
sod" (3). Using images appealing only to 
sight helps to produce this view from the 
outside looking in. 



Similarly, the poem's lack of definition 
allows the reader to see this painful memory 
as similar to a personal experience without 
demanding the recollection of details better 
forgotten. Several things are purposely 
unclear: whether the speaker is male or female, 
which person ended the relationship, and 
who, if anyone, was at fault. This comfortable 
obscurity encourages the reader to identify 
with the speaker, and assures that the 
similarity is tenuous at best. Instead of 
pushing the reader out, the distance here is 
created by pulling the reader in, but only to 
the point of familiarity. 

It is at this point of subtle recognition 
that the "Neutral Tones" come into play. 
Perhaps the most obvious distinction of the 
poem is its total lack of color. Like a black and 
white photograph, the "grayish leaves" and 
"white" sun yield much the same effect as the 
references to death and the mention of time 
gone by: "Since then" (13). They all create 
distance in time. Drained of its color, this 
poem is a memory on the edge of death, the 
expectation of which is a relief to its owner. 

Disrobing, defusing and discharging 
painful memories is the whole point of the 
poem. Sometimes we ardently avoid 
memories because we remember that the 
memories were painful before, not because 
they are painful now. Hardy demonstrates 
pain's aging is pleasant, its future is bright. 
Separated by comforting time, drawn by its 
subtle familiarity and contending with a 
tempting perspective, the reader is 
encouraged to explore old wounds. The 
realization that pain subsides with time is not 
always an easy one — pain is often easier to 
ignore than to reflect on. 



38 




v& 



Woman Throwing a Cast Net 
Andrew H. Lentini 

39 



Potentially Nobody 

Doug Walker 



When Victor woke up, the sun 
burned his eyes so he rolled over and 
faced the back of the bench. His wincing 
features relaxed and gave way to a smile 
when he realized how far he must have 
fallen to be so attached to a park bench. 
This morning marked the thirty-fourth 
consecutive evening on the bench, and 
Victor considered it somehow his. In all 
fairness, as benches go, it was exceptional. 
It was a full six feet long, sparing Victor 
two inches, and, miraculously, the birds 
bypassed it so it stayed relatively clean. 
Victor didn't question this phenomenon, 
for that would jinx his luck. The crisp 
morning air told him that winter was 
coming, and he knew it would be harsh, 
but Victor tried not to think about bad 
things — he lived for today and today 
would be beautiful. 

Victor arose and gathered his 
things. He decided not to go to the shelter 
for breakfast because it tended to depress 
him. He didn't feel like the rest of the men 
there; he was different. At the shelter, 
they were more than just homeless; they 
seemed hopeless to Victor. And whenever 
he went there, Terry bored him with stories 
of his past achievements and his future 
plans to get back on top — "I'm just in a rut 
now, ya know," he would tell Victor, "and 
as soon as my plan comes together, I'll be 
back on the fast track, ya know?" Victor 
knew that at fifty-three years old, Terry 
wouldn't make it to the fast track, and 
would be lucky to get a bed that night at 
the shelter. He honestly felt sorry for ol' 
Terry — "Damn fool," Victor whispered to 
himself. As he passed a store front 
window, he decided to check himself out: 
his sandy, tan boots advertised how many 
years he had spent on a construction site, 
his blue Dickies were holeless, and his 
denim shirt was only partially wrinkled, 
but the breast pocket would have to be 



40 



reattached, as it was folding over at one 
corner. He licked his hand and patted 
down the hair that had risen while he 
slept to form a hill on the crown of his 
head. The salt and pepper whiskers were 
coming back so he could have used a shave, 
but, all in all, Victor felt he looked fine. In 
the bottom corner of the window he 
noticed a HELP WANTED sign which 
disappointed him because just yesterday 
he had been told that the position had 
been filled. Again, Victor decided not to 
question this, knowing the Lord would 
provide. 

As he rounded a corner, Victor 
walked headlong into a man. 

"Oh, excuse me. Are you O.K.?" 

"For Chrissakes! Why don't you 
watch where you're going?" The suit 
adjusted his tie and rushed off, never 
taking his eyes off the ground. Victor 
didn't know what to make of the man's 
abrasiveness so he shrugged his shoulders 
and proceeded down the street. Halfway 
down the same block he ran across one of 
those secretaries who wear tennis shoes 
with their dresses. Partly tickled by the 
incident with the suit, Victor grinned. 

"Mornin', " he said. This woman 
reacted as if Victor had also run into her. 
"I don't have any change," she said as she 
clutched her purse, tucked her head, and 
quickened her pace. 

"Change? Who wants her change?" 
Victor thought. He couldn't believe people 
would act this way on such a glorious 
morning. Maybe the fact that he hadn't 
shaved made him seem threatening to her, 
he thought. For whatever reason, Victor 
decided he'd better not speak to anyone 
he passed — that would solve the problems. 

For the rest of the morning, he 
walked along the main street of the 
business district. The higher the sun rose, 
the higher his spirits rose, and the warmer 



it became down in the urban valley, the 
more confident he became. Everyone on 
the sidewalks was equal, and although 
they had different itineraries, they all — 
together — made up this downtown 
Tuesday morning. 

It was this feeling of naive optimism 
that brought Victor into Rex's — "Where 
men's fashions make a statement." Since 
pedestrian traffic was thinning, he thought 
he would just pop in and browse for 
awhile. He was immediately greeted by 
an overanxious manager. 

"Excuse me, sir, can I help you?" 

"No, thank you. I'm just looking 
right now," Victor said whimsically and 
walked by him. 

Insisting— "SIR, can I HELP you?" 

Turning— "No. THANK you." 

The manager walked up very close 
to Victor, ducked his head and whispered, 

"Look, let's not cause a scene. You 
obviously aren't going to buy anything, 
so please leave." 

Victor rested his hand on the 
manager's shoulder to assure him and 
whispered, "You're causing the scene. 
Now please leave me alone." 

The manager leaped backward and 
slapped Victor's hand away. 

"Get your hands off me! Now look, 
I've tried to be nice about this, but if you 
don't leave, I'll have to call the police!" 

At that moment, Victor realized 
most of the people in the store were staring 
at him. The skirt in the shoe department 
was giggling under her breath and another 
manager stepped out from behind the 
counter, crossed his arms over his chest 
and stared with aggression in his eyes at 
Victor. Customers gawked and whispered 
light-heartedly amongst themselves, and 
one little girl couldn't resist pointing her 
tiny, untouched finger and laughing. 
Victor's blank stare and tense jaw showed 



41 



how angry and humiliated he was. He 
turned very slowly and walked out of the 
store with as much dignity and pride as a 
man in his position could muster. 

Outside, Victor was greeted by the 
toxic exhaust of a passing bus. The fumes 
made his face grimace and eyes water. 
Across the street, he saw a man ranting 
about salvation, cursing Jews and 
homosexuals. As Victor turned, a foul- 
smelling man with no front teeth 
approached. 

"Hey man, gimme a dollar." 

"No," said Victor, backing away in 
virtual fear. "No," he repeated. 

"Watch out," said the suit Victor 
backed into. 

"I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry," 
snapped Victor. He turned around and 
quickened his pace. 

"Accept Christ or suffer the wrath 
of Hell ..." said the preacher, but soon the 
pounding of his boots was all he heard. 
As he ran down the middle of the sidewalk, 
Victor couldn't make out the watery faces 
of the people he passed, but he felt their 
condemnation. He wanted to knock the 
blurred images over. He wanted to make 
them fall. He ran faster. He'd had enough. 
He saw their prejudice. It was ugly. He 
wouldn't shave ... for the tennis-shoed 
secretary ... He wouldn't watch ... where 
he was going ... for Christ's sake . . . He 
would ... cause a scene ... He would ... 
demand that job ... He would go ... where 
... he ... wanted. The run was far more 
than Victor's middle-aged body was 
accustomed to, so he eased himself to the 
sidewalk. He rested his head on his 
forearms which were resting on his knees. 
Victor could have easily been mistaken 
for being asleep or simply pathetic. 

After he caught his breath, Victor 
remained seated to collect his thoughts. 
Until now, he had prided himself in his 




The Door 
Jacquelynn Nessmith 



ability to stay composed. He was 
ashamed — ashamed of his reaction and 
ashamed of his predicament. Just then, a 
quarter fell between his feet. He looked 
up to see a young man. 

"You need that more than I do." 
Victor was shocked! Speechless! 
Who did that kid think he was? He didn't 
need his money! Only street people take 
handouts, not unemployed construction 
workers! He stood and watched the 



presumptuous boy cross the street. Victor 
turned to walk in the opposite direction. 
He got a few steps away and then looked 
back to see the quarter still lying on the 
sidewalk. Victor paused, thinking of the 
implications. He looked around for an 
audience, and when he found none, 
quickly picked up the coin and walked 



awa 1 



42 



w^w 




Quelle heure est-il? 
Lynn Wilson 



Then we looked closelier at Time, 
And saw his ghostly arms revolving 
To sweep off woeful things with prime, 
Things sinister with things sublime 
Alike dissolving. 

Going and Staying 
Thomas Hardy 



43 



Doctor's Visit 
Gaylc Whitakcr 

He takes my hand to climb the path 

And counts the birds to learn his math. 

His tiptoe gait exhausts his will. 

Halfway there he lifts his arms — 

We top the hill in tight embrace 

While singing of MacDonald's Farm. 

The waiting room is filled with stares — 

I quickly spot two empty chairs. 

We choose a book to pass the time, 

And smoothing his hair, so flyaway light, 

I read out a tale of bears 

And linger a touch: a mother's right. 

I trace his ear with my fingertip 

While fantasizing of our getaway trip: 

We'll ride a space ship past the moon, 

And when the weather's nice and we can swim 

Like fish . . . we'll come and visit — 

Perhaps in June . . . and then I look at him — 

How treacherous life's become for us! 

"Uh, Mrs. Gray ..." she interrupts. 

We trail behind her constant chatter 

And follow her to a tiny room. 

She treats us like we're closest friends — 

Her cheery air leaves me in gloom. 

I tickle him on the papered bed, 

His laugh does little to ease my dread. 

The hanging drape sweeps open wide — 

He enters with a practiced smile. 
My boy's small hand and mine entwine. 
"I've been looking at your son's file ...." 



44 



■« oo ■.•••• •.-.' 

; S; .•; .•; .■; .; . /JS; .■; .■; J>; 

:'•':'•'.:'':'■'.:''':'•':'•',:''':'•':•'; 




a nara i a a a raj i a a ra ra "a a na rej r&'&W&r'»*&&\i 

i ^ a a a a a ^ a ^ a a a a *> ^ * ^ ^% ** ^ ^ ^ h> * s 

u a ,a,aj* '*'»'*-> y "*"*<* i»_a .y _a.y_a_a-y _y "a-y^a 
' a^aja<a>*'a^a «a^a !*<*'*'»'*'* -a j»"a-a-,a^a "*"»<». 
*yy^*^y^yyy^*y^*ya*;yo?^*o!'ofe*o!'^*^*^''.J 

W*Va*aWa,»WaWa*»VaVaVe"»Wa^ 
'i a y <a_a ■a^ay.y >» <» _a_a_a_a <*"»•» la.a <» "»_a^ 

g v njV an a < a y y a a» a» a y ■ / an an a> d * , 

5y*y!KyM^^ 



ja AAA _y _y . y . . w v . <* y y .y .y - * . y y y 
AAAAA AAA AAAAAAAAAA^ 
tAAAAAAAA A AAAAAAAAA 




^AAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAA AAA AAAAAA AAA A A A<* 
&AA AAAAAAAAAA A A AAAAA A A AAAAAAA A AAA?: 



&*AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^ 

*AAAA AAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA A AAA A AAAAAAA 

ob, aaaaa aaaaaaa^aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaa aaaaaaaa**& 

PA AAAAAAAAAA AAAAA A A AAA A A AAAAAAAAA A A A A A AAA AA& 
'AAAAAA A A AAAAAAAAA A AAAAA AAA jB «a jB <a ja_y _y AAAAAAA ja.a •£ 
y AAAAA AAA AAAAAAA A AAAAA AAAAAA AAA AAAAA A AAAAA A A 
■ AAAAA AAAAAAA A A AAA A AAA A AAA AAA A AAA A AAAAAA A AA~X 
^*^^*^*^^^*ny\*_a)_y_a^tB^a^a^y^ 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^AAAA AAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA AA* 

kaAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA AAAAAA A AAAAAA A A A AAA AAA& 

&AAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAA^AA^AAAA AAA AAAAA AAA A AAAAAA*.^ 

*AA AAAAAA AAAAA A A AAAAA A A AAA A AAA A A AAA AAAAA AAA& 

-i-AAAA AAAAA AAA AAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA J* AAAAA-ni 

'^AAAAAAA AAA AAAAA AAA AAAAA A A A A AAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA** 

*rAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAjA^AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA>AAAAAAAAAAAAAA^ 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAA AAA AAA AAAAA AAA AAA A AAAAA AAA AAAA& 

cA AAAAAAAAA A AAAAAAAAAA AAA _y A A A A A AAA A AAA A A A A AAAAAAA A AZ 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAA A A AAlP 

-^AAAAAA AAA AAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA A AAAAAA A A AA AAAAA AAAAAAAAA AA£ 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^A^AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^AAAAAAA 



^AAAA 

. J O 9 d 4 d 

^aaaaaaaaaaa 

ZAAAAAAAAtA<AA< ' 



PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^ 

^*^y^y^y^y^y^y^*^y,y,y^B> a_a» y^y^y^y^y.^^ 

PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA^*AAAAA^*AAAAAAAAA^ 
*A AAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA AAAAAA AA A A AAA AAAAA 
'AAAAA AAAAA AAAAAAAAA AAA A A A A AAAAA AAAAA-& 
AAAAA^AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 



AAAAAAAAAA 
IAAAAAAAAA-J* 
AAAAAAAAAA 
>AAAAAAA 
PA A A AAA 




AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAa 
$ AAAAAAAAAA AAAAA& 
* A AAAAAA AAAAAAAAA* 
!»^AA^A^AAAAAAAAAAAAA 



PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAl 
\AA*AAAtAj£AA<A*AAAAjf' 
AAAAA A A A AAAAAA A 
*A A AAAAA AAAAAA y v > 
&AAAA AAAAA AAAAAAt 
i A A A A A A A A AAA AAA Jr 
A A A A A A A A AAA AAA A 






a~a~a~a~a~a~a7a~ay~a7a"a~a:yjayy 

> a a a a a a a a a ay a ^ ay a ^^ 
aja.a >a <ayyy <a^a^a iayyyyyy 

yy j 4vvy ^ •*> y »">y>yyy 



s 



&AZAAAAA&A 

'AAAAAAAA->-~**- 
*A AAAAAAAAA 



'*AAAAAAA<AAA*A*AAA< 



* AA A A. A AA WA \* b - b J AAAAA' 

'.AAAAA. A. <?A A A A. A. AAA. A. A. A A. 



AAAAA AAAAAAAAAA AAAlAZ^A* 

AAAAA AAAAA AAA AAA AAAAA 
AAA A AAAAAAAAA AAAAAAA* 
*AAAAAAAA AAA AAAAAAAAA 
AAAAAA AAAAAAA AAAAAAA* 
>AAAAAAAAAAAA A AAAAAAA 
AAAAAAA A AAAAA AAAAAAA*. 
* AAAAAA^ *-» *^*^*^!*-y >B >B "B^BjBjB-ai-a 
AA^AAAAAAAAAA A AAAAAAA* 
AAAAAA AAAAA AAAAAAAAA 
* AAAAAAA AAAAA A AAA AAA-* 
AAAAAA AAA A A AAAAAAAAA 



Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 

*y,a A AAAAAA AAAAAAA 
y*y*«i:y"y*y*y*aW 



^a*a»&a*a»a»a»a&€^^^ 
^AAAAAAAAA A A AAAAAAA AAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAA A A AAAAAAAAA A A AAAAA A A* 



I 



One Fish, Two Fish 
Kathy Whitney 



45 



My Little Girl 

Joe Lee 



ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A LITTLE 
GIRL NAMED KATIE 

AND HER DADDY LOVED HER MORE THAN 
ANYTHING IN THE WORLD 

AND EVERYWHERE THEY WENT, KATIE 
WOULD SAY, 

I'M DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL 



This is how it would be. After all these 
years, he would be a father, a proud, proud 
father. 

His wife would be home soon. She 
would know. She would tell him, but first 
she would tease him. 

He continued to polish the car, the 
shiny gray car. He studied his reflection 
in the polish and thought about the lines 
creeping in around his eyes. He wondered 
about his age. Would it affect him as a 
father? Could he be a good father? He 
wanted a son that would carry on the 
family name. He was sorry that his father 
had not lived to see his grandchild born. 
He knew about right from wrong, Little 
League and college. He would give his 
son all of the knowledge and love that he 
could. His son would have all of the 
advantages that he had done without, and, 
unlike his father, would not have to wait 
until he was well into adulthood to really 
understand the world. 

She turned quickly into the 
driveway and the car door sprang open. 
"Well?" he said. 
She smiled. 

"Well, what?" his wife said. 
He knew she would make him work 



46 



to find out. 

"It's a boy?" 

"No." 

"Come on. Tell me the truth," he 
said as she walked nearer to him. 

"I am telling the truth. It's a girl." 

Bobby would let her off the hook 
for teasing him. 

"It's alright. You can tell me the 
truth. I won't be mad because you've 
been kidding me." 

"I'm not kidding. It's a girl!" Her 
joy had turned. She was becoming upset. 
"What's wrong with that?" she snapped. 

"I just knew it would be a boy. I 
don't know anything about girls. What 
can I teach a girl?" 

"She's a person. You can teach her 
to be a person, can't you?" 

From that moment on, things were 
different. His wife was right and he was 
ashamed. Over the months, waiting for 
his little girl to arrive, he imagined all the 
things that they would do together and 
how much he would love her. 

The wait for his daughter, like this 
drive home, seemed to be an eternity. 
Baltimore, the place of her conception, 
seemed like years ago. Shortly after her 
beginning, Bobby had moved his 
expecting wife to the South. He would be 
in college and between quarters if their 
daughter was born as expected. He was 
proud that his little girl had impeccable 
timing. 

"That's my girl," he would say when 
he told people of her anticipated arrival 
date. 

A fawn lay dead on the side of the 
island road. Her mangled mass was 
recognizable only by her spots. It was a 



tragedy, but a hundred yards away other 
older deer stood grazing, seemingly not 
bothered by the sudden recent death. He 
wondered how this could be. When his 
father died, his mother received so much 
attention. The attention was almost like 
fame, but it was a fleeting fame that was 
not nearly worth the misery. Soon she 
was alone again with her thoughts, her 
pain and loneliness. Bobby, too, had left 
her alone. Guilt still remained. 

His wife's time was so near that she 
was almost immobile. Bobby walked out 
across the island to the old wooden bridge 
across the narrow part of the stream. A 
plank was missing at the peak of the 
bridge, and he had to stand with one foot 
on each side of the opening as he watched 
the murky water of the life-giving stream 
flow under his feet towards the darkening 
ocean. The sunset was unusually yellow. 
He watched the sky blackening as the 
evening's yellow light faded. He watched, 
too, as the spots on the fallen fawn faded 
into darkness. 

Bobby sat quietly in the birthing 
room, almost bored. His wife was doing 
fine and everything was on schedule, 
including the nurses. They would come 
in whenever he was about to fall asleep, 
so the long night just got longer. 

At daybreak the doctor came in. 
Katie was still several hours away. 

A nurse Bobby had not seen before 
arrived with the morning. She checked 
his wife, turned and said, "I don't want to 
scare you but we've got a problem. Things 
are going to happen pretty fast from here 
on." 

She sent out a frantic message for 
the doctor. Bobby remembered what a 



prolapsed cord was. An operating room 
was lined up. He watched the monitor as 
his little girl's heart rate faded rapidly. 
He could not tell his wife that this was 
happening, but he sensed that she knew. 
She was completely still with her head 
back on the pillow for the first time in a 
long time as if she had snapped into 
complete resignation. She knew her baby 
was beyond her help. 

The doctor returned and began 
disconnecting monitors and tubes. Bobby 
watched the screen turn black. A small 
herd of people moved quickly by the small 
opening in the door of the birthing room 
on the way to prepare for his wife's 
surgery. The nurse attempted to keep the 
life-giving stream flowing to Katie by 
keeping her head off the cord until surgery 
was ready, but without the monitor, only 
Katie knew if she was surviving. 

After an eternity, when everything 
was disconnected, the doctor said, "Let's 
go!" 

Bobby pulled the bed into the 
hallway and frantically, but silently, 
inquired the direction. Someone pointed. 
He heard other people in the hall talking 
about their lives and their new babies. 
From behind the bed he pushed 
desperately. He wondered if they were 
too old to have a baby. The doctor and 
nurses caught up with him and helped 
him push. A voice directed at him from 
behind the desk at the side of the hall said, 
"Daddies can't go beyond the yellow line." 

Bobby stopped. Resigned, he 
looked down. He stood with one foot on 
each side of a broad yellow line. He turned 
to the voice. There was no help. He 
wondered how this could be. He heard 
the operating room doors spring open. 



47 



His thousand thoughts were swirling so 
that everything seemed in slow motion. 
Daddy? Don't you have to have a child to 
be a daddy? Did he have a child? Would 
he? His little girl? 

He reached into his back pocket for 
the letter he had written to Katie two days 
earlier. He looked back down at the yellow 
line between his feet while the black ocean 
of anguish and agony poured over him. 
He stood there motionless, watching the 
yellow line until it faded into darkness. 



Rose 
Tommy Harper 




48 



Inspiration 

Tobias A. Brasier 



Mary Mills always favored her 
grandmother. Their bond began early on. Mary 
was named after her grandmother. When Mary 
was a tiny infant, Gramma would spend hours 
with her, cooing, laughing, telling stories, saying 
nursery rhymes, reciting poetry. Gramma seemed 
to know every story and poem ever composed, and 
more, but that wasn't unusual. Gramma's father 
was a well-educated man who valued readingover 
everything. He was educated at Oxford, where his 
grandparents had come from their homeland of 
Greece. Mary's Gramma married a young student 
from the university, Raymond David Mills. After 
earning his doctorate in English Literature, Ray 
Mills took his young wife to America, where he 
enjoyed a long career of teaching at a university in 
Delaware. He alsoenjoyeda career as anovelist and 
poet, and his talents were lauded by all. Ray and his 
wife had one son, Mary' s father. Nicholas Mills was 
also a talented man when it came to writing. 
Beginning with the walls of his bedroom and a red 
crayon, Nick was a writer. Nick majored in History, 
and by thirty became one of the leading authorities 
on the American Civil War. Like his father, Nick 
taught at the university level. Nick published three 
well-received books about the Civil War by his 
twenty-eighth birthday, each of them dedicated to 
his parents. Ray Mills died just four weeks before 
Nick married Anne, a mathematics professor from 
the college. A year later they had a daughter, Mary. 

Nick always wanted to write a novel about 
the War, but fiction seemed to be the one form of 
writing out of his reach. If words came at all for this 
project, they came in the form of another critical 
survey of the War.Hebeganwritingitwhenhewas 
twenty-five, and went to his father for assistance, 
but nothing Ray told him seemed to help. The only 
movement forward would come after his mother 
gave him words of encouragement 'It will be 
alright, Nicky." Nick eventually shelved the novel. 
He went on about the business of teaching and 
writing for journals of American history, marrying, 
and raising Mary. 

For the first six years of her life, Mary had no 
sitter exceptforherGramma,andGramma'sstories 
and rhymes filled her ears. When Nick asked 
Grarnrnahowsheknewallthosestories^hereplied 
that she learned them from her mother . Mary could 



repeat any taleGramma told her, word for word, by 
the time she was six; Nick found this strange, but 
stranger that he couldn't remember any tale 
Gramma told two minutes after he'd heard it After 
Mary turned six, Gramma died. Nick and Anne 
were saddened, mostly for Mary's sake, at 
Gramma's passing. Mary knew that death meant 
never coming back again, but she told her parents 
that it was alright, and touching her hand to her 
heart, shesaid thatGramma told her that she would 
always be "in here." 

Nick decided to try his novel again, as a 
dedication to the memory of his mother. Two years 
he worked, with the results the same as before He 
nearly threw out the scraps, but he couldn't bear to 
see them in the trash can. During the summer of his 
fortieth birthday , and Mary's eighth year, Nick 
took his family on a vacation to Rock Ridge, 
Tennessee, and rented a furnished house on the 
side of a mountain overlooking the battlefieldthe 
remote site of the most infamous battle of the Civil 
War. 

OneSarurdayafternoon,Nickdozedonthe 
king-sized bed he shared with Anne Anne and 
Mary were out back of the house looking for war 
relics. Nick was dreaming of his mother. She was, 
as before, giving him words of encouragement "It 
will be alright, Nicky," she said. 

Will it be alright Nicky Daddy? 

"Will it be alright, Daddy?" 

Nick woke with a start "What?" 

"Will it be alright, Daddy?" Mary was 
standingnexttoNick'shead. Tmtired, so Mommy 
let me come back for a nap. Will it be alright if I sleep 
here with you?" 

'Sure Climb." 

Mary quickly dozed off, but Nick could not 
get back to sleep. He thought about the book. Ashe 
lay there giving the book what had to be its last 
desperate hope for life, Mary turned over in her 
sleep, and her right hand rested on Nick's chest, 
over his heart 

One year later Nick's novel, A Nation in 
Tomi^f,publishedinfourparts,met with universal 
critical success. On thetitiepageread thededication: 

To the memory of my mother, Antonia 
Calliope Mills. To the future of my daughter, Mary 
Calliope Mills. _ 



49 



Moribund 
Jason S. Richardson 

I lie like a coiled snake 

And watch him every day — 

Everyday whistling, humming, walking 

With a gleeful stride. 

I lie here waiting to be used, 

Waiting for something different — 

Something different indeed. 

I lie like a coiled snake 
And watch him every day — 
Everyday no whistling, no humming, 
Just a melancholy stride. 
I lie here waiting to be used, 
Waiting for something different — 
Something different indeed. 

Late one dark anniversary, 
He comes to me crying. 
With faltering hands he lifts me, 
As if I am an answer. 
Something different indeed. 

I am hanging from a rafter. 
With trembling hands he pulls me 
Tighter around his pale neck — 
A neck which once wore kisses 
But now wears only me. 

I draw as taut as a guitar string, 
As he steps into nothingness. 
With white wetness his eyes 
Roll in their sockets. 

He claws at me with stupid hands, 
As if he has changed his mind. 

And only a short distance away 
A new neck wears new kisses. 



50 




Passageway 
Lisa Berry 



51 



Dear Sweet Mom 

NJ 



While some mothers-in-law are as pure 
as the driven snow (ignoring the fact that 
where there is acid rain, there must be acid 
snow) there are those who are simply the 
scourge of all married men who are 
unfortunate enough to have one that is still 
breathing. For those who are as unfortunate 
as this, there are those that are doubly 
unfortunate in that their mothers-in-law abide 
with them under the same roof, which is 
much worse than residing in the same country. 

A mother-in-law in residence is the 
truest affliction that a man may carry. Give 
me crutches, let me wheel my way through 
the halls of life in a wheelchair, make me a 
bedridden quadraplegic, but God spare me 
the affliction of being exposed, analyzed, diced 
and pureed, filleted and splayed by the Great 
Perfectionist who had just as soon eat you as 
say one nice word to you. 

Man has been cursed by this Icon to 
Sanctity since the institution of marriage was 
first recognized — back in the Dark Ages. 
Certainly Henry VIII had no such problem, 
but if he did, you can rest assured that he dealt 
with it most efficiently. Not that all mothers- 
in-law should be beheaded, just a select few. 

For those men who are saddled with 
the misfortune of having your mother-in-law 
living with you and treating you as if you are 
the lowest form of life known to humankind, 
who acts as though you are still in your 
adolescence and have not a clue as to what life 
is all about, who makes you feel as though 
you are standing nude before a convention of 
the Daughters of the American Revolution — 
we have a solution. 

Recently we discovered an 
organization, the whereabouts of which 
cannot at this time be disclosed due to security 
reasons. There exists within the continental 
boundaries of North America an organization 
consisting of fed-up Gentlemen of the 



Affliction. Operating under the name 
S.M.I.L.E. (Sons of Mothers-in-Law 
Entertainment), the group is apparently 
strong. Membership is well over one million, 
and for a one hundred dollar one-time fee, the 
benefits far outweigh the minor expense. With 
such a following, you can rest assured that 
Dear Sweet Mom will be well taken care of 
until her passing. Over one hundred million 
dollars has been contributed thus far, and the 
number of satisfied customers is equivalent 
to the number of members. Everybody is 
happy. 

S.M.I.L.E. offers your worst nightmare 
a three-week trip, all expenses paid, to 
beautiful, warm Cozumel, Mexico. Your 
membership fee covers everything, and it 
even includes a two hundred fifty thousand 
dollar life insurance policy on your wife's 
mother. 

In the middle of Mom's second week 
of vacation, you and your wife will receive an 
urgent telegram from the Mexican 
government stating, "Unfortunately Mrs. So 
and So, while basking in the warm waters in 
front of her hotel this morning, was the victim 
of a shark attack. We assume that she was 
devoured as we have little remains. Request 
your immediate response." While your wife 
will definitely be upset, you will have time to 
console her. S.M.I.L.E. will fly you both to 
Cozumel under the semblance of identifying 
a body. Upon your arrival the Mexican 
S.M.I.L.E. affiliates will provide you with what 
appears to be the remains of an elderly lady 
and the uppers from a set of false teeth. You 
and your wife must return home to announce 
the harsh reality of Mom's demise, but all the 
while, you are the only one who knows what 
has happened. 

What truly transpired follows: You 
and your wife drove mother-in-law to the 
airport to see her of f on her Cozumel vacation. 



52 



How excited she would be just knowing that 
she would have three weeks of uninterrupted 
bliss and rest and relaxation, away from that 
gusano son-in-law of hers, knowing that she 
would be fully prepared to give you pure hell 
upon her return because Cozumel would 
simply not be good enough, and besides, 
nobody down there would have understood 
a damn thing she had said and far be it from 
her to even vaguely understand their verbal 
presentations. But when you said goodbye to 
her this time, it was forever. 

The plane was full of women when she 
got on it, all of them mothers-in-law, going on 
their S.M.I.L.E. vacations. The flight 
proceeded, presumably in a westerly 
direction, while your wife grovelled at your 
feet at dinner for being so kind and generous. 
Meanwhile, Mother thought that she would 
have soon deplaned to step onto the humid 
tarmac at Cozumel International only to get a 
little curious when she heard over the 
loudspeaker: "Ladies, this is your Captain 
speaking. We will unfortunately be in a 
holding pattern for the next four hours. It 
appears that the son-in-law of the Mexican 
President's wife has, in a drunken state, seized 
all power and closed Cozumel International 
Airport until more tequila can be delivered 
from Ixtapa. We apologize for this 
inconvenience." 

The plane, loaded with mothers-in- 
law from throughout the nation, was suddenly 
filled with excited whispers of irate, gossiping 
women. One retorted, "My God! Her son-in- 
law is drunk and has taken over the airport! 
Can you imagine?!" The ladies sat there 
continuing to knit putrid colored afghans, 
and another replied, "For more tequila, too! 
The drunken scum!" Anothered blathered, 
"Men. I swear. They're all alike. Sounds just 
like something my baby's Jeffrey would do! 
Why, just the other night he came in from 



fishing and was so drunk he fell right off the 
porch into that foot tub of old squirmy, slimy 
catfish he'd brought home. I swear to 
goodness, he was picking those old prickly 
old catfish out of his behind and I said to him, 
"Why Jeffrey!" She was interrupted by the 
loudspeaker. 'This is your Captain speaking. 
Ladies, unfortunately the son-in-law of the 
Mexican President's wife still refuses to open 
the airport. It seems that his father has now 
joined him and they are both ranting for more 
tequila. We are re-routing our flight to 
Albuquerque, New Mexico, however, for the 
night. Food and lodging will be provided by 
your local S.M.I.L.E. representative as soon as 
we disembark. In the morning we will resume 
our flight to Cozumel at nine o'clock sharp. 
Again, we apologize for this inconvenience, 
and we thank you for your patience. You are 
a dear group of ladies." 

"Ooh, how nice," the mothers-in-law 
responded in unison. One said, "I've always 
wanted to see the mountains of New Mexico. 
I've heard that they are so beautiful. But I 
declare, can you believe that Mexican boy 
and his daddy? I declare, that poor, 
unfortunate woman. We should call on her 
while we're in Cozumel and see if she wants 
an afghan. Those two sound just like my 
Ralph and my June's Bobby when they get 
together!" 

Well, Gentlemen of the Affliction, little 
did these ladies know that for the entire flight 
they had been proceeding north over the 
Canadian wilds. When they deplaned, it was 
in the frozen tundra of Coppermine, one of 
the northernmost outposts in the Great 
Northwestern Territories. They probably 
believed that the frozen knobs of ice around 
them were indeed the New Mexican 
mountains, but actually they saw part of a 
glacier that borders the lovely and frozen 
Coronation Gulf, only a two hour flight from 



53 



the North Pole, and six hours from Moscow. 

During their first night's stay, they 
were led to believe that the Aurora Borealis 
was the result of a great nuclear holocaust 
and that, by the grace of God, Albuquerque 
was spared, and that they were doomed to 
spend eternity there. Imagine how guilty 
they felt when they reflected on the cruelties 
and gross inhumanities to which they 
subjected their daughters' husbands over the 
years since, in their minds, you, their 
daughters and their grandchildren have gone 
to the great thermonuclear blast in the sky; 
incinerated, no less. 

Meanwhile, you console your spouse 
and assist with all of the funeral arrangements 
for Dear Sweet Mom, who was supposedly 
devoured by the sharks (you have 
documentation to prove it, even an official 
Mexican death certificate), but you also 
console yourself because you know that 
Mom's torture is only beginning. 

Not only are the ladies forced to watch 
reruns of Mr. Ed, Wheel of Fortune, and Jeopardy 
twenty four hours a day, they must also knit 
penis socks at the rate of at least two per week 
for the men of nearby Yellowknife in the 
Yukon Terri tories. Of course the ladies believe 
that the stockings are for the victims down in 
Albuquerque, for whom clothes are at a 



premium since the nuclear blast. Four hours 
a day are devoted to lectures on the virtues of 
men, especially the ones that their daughters 
married, their sons-in-law. They are also 
reminded daily of the selfish atrocities each of 
them committed while in residence with their 
long lost loved ones. 

Mr. Ed, Pat Sajak, Vanna White, Alex 
Trebek and audience contestants are the 
ladies' entertainment forevermore except for 
springtime, when they are all gathered up to 
go on daily excursions to watch the mating 
rituals of the Arctic penguin and the Great 
Northern walrus. 

Does this sound like something you 
would like? Smiling? CallS.M.I.L.E. today at 
1-BAN-ISH-DMOM, and send her off on an 
eternal vacation. It is certain to guarantee you 
wedded bliss and if you want, you will be 
able to run around the house butt-naked, 
screaming profanities at the top of your lungs, 
you can mess up the kitchen, cook what you 
want, stop all of the yard work and cultivate 
a jungle, stop hauling off the trash and let it 
grow into a giant garbage heap out in the 
front yard ... in short, you can do what you 
would normally do if Dear Old Sweet Mother 
were nowhere around . . . eaten by sharks, no 
less, the poor sweet soul. 



54 



Sestina of the Sea 
Erica Sue Moore 



Boats flow swiftly along the pristine shore 
raising sails and greeting the coming night 
waves lap against their sturdy wooden sides 
dolphins leap into the crystal sky blue 
diving deep in search of any sea homes 
the sailors brush about the deck quiet, alone. 

They all feel the void of being alone 

as their vessel sails away from the shore 

the sailors yearn for distant land bound home 

many lay sleepless all throughout the night 

to stare out into the shifting deep blue 

and dream of that, ever locked in their sides. 

The waves stay steady, with them, by their sides 
among them a sea of many, each one alone 
rolling with simple, deep, forever blue 
to chance a brief visit with some far shore 
and return to the sea, into the night 
going back to other, far away homes. 

The dolphins arise in their sea salt homes 
and jump airborne, water bright on their sides 
they play with the waves, long into the night 
swiftly bounding over them, so alone 
meeting few, quest from shore to shore 
roaming through all the vastness of the blue. 

Sea-blown sailors wake meet the dawning blue 
the waves caress the ship, bringing them home 
happy voices grow, they can see their shore 
tales fly wild and laughter shakes their sides 
sadness goes away, now not all alone 
they dream of whaf s coming to them that night. 

Still the waves and dolphins move by the night 

to float and lull about the empty blue 

roaming together, yet still quite alone 

dream of having what sailors call "Homes" 

where they sleep with close loved ones by their sides 

and wake to walk along the sandy shore. 

By the roll of the blue, along the shore 
away to their homes, alone, near and far 
they travel next to men's sides, day and night. 



55 



Winner of the Lillian Spencer Award for the Best Prose Work in Calliope 



#14 Abercorn 
Bill Gebhart 

The old woman shivered and pulled But what could she do for her boy's 

her coat more tightly around her. The heater fortieth birthday? It had to be something very 

on the bus was not working this morning and special. Turning forty was something of a 

the weather was as cold and wet and raw as milestone for any young man and she was not 

only a rainy winter day in Savannah can be. about to let her own son's fortieth birthday 

The old man had told her not to go, to pass unnoticed. But what to do? It had to be 

wait until next week or the week after or the something to remember. Something out of 

week after that when the weather would be the ordinary. Something special, 

warmer or less windy or at least not raining. And then it had come to her. Almost 

The old man had told her to wait for a sunny from out of the blue it had been so long ago. 

day. What difference could a day or two Of course. She would do for his fortieth 

make? And then had rolled over under the birthday just what she had done for his 

covers and gone back to sleep. birthdays when he was a little boy. She 

What difference? Of course, she had to would make him a beautiful bouquet of hand- 
go. Today was Bobby's birthday. Her son. made flowers. Bright yellows and pinks and 
Her only child. Of course she had to go. purples and blues. It had been a private joke 
Stupid old man. What did he know. Ever between them. That no flowers bloomed all 
since his retirement he had been no use to her winter long except on his birthday, 
at all. Not that he'd been much good before It was a wonderful idea. He would be 
that but at least he hadn't been under foot and so surprised. She would make a huge, 
in her way all day long. At least he'd been beautiful bouquet and bring it to him. As a 
gone then from early in the morning till surprise. What a great birthday present it 
suppertime six days a week and she could get would be. She hadn't done that in years, 
her housework done and still have some quiet In fact, the last time she'd done 
time to herself. anything of the sort, it hadn't been for his 

As it was now and had been for the last birthday at all. It had been for his high school 

four years, she had looked forward to any graduation and Bobby had been so tickled, 

excuse to get out of the house and away from She remembered the big kiss and hug she'd 

him. This was an excursion she had been received in front of all of Bobby's classmates, 

looking forward to for a very long time. She could only imagine how envious all the 

The old woman had planned other mothers must have been, 

everything so carefully. For months she had And that evening after all the 

fretted over what present to get and then a excitement had died down, she and Bobby 

few weeks ago it had come to her. Cake had sat up and talked to one another for the 

wouldn't do. Or clothes. Or even money, longest time while the old man dozed off in 

Her meager social security check would not his chair in front of the television as he always 

stretch far enough to do him justice anyway did. 

and it was useless to ask the old man. He They talked for hours and hours, well 

thought this birthday present business was a into the morning. They talked about the past, 

lot of nonsense and had made that quite plain They talked about the present. They talked 

to her on more than one occasion. about the future. About a beautiful healthy 

56 



baby boy and his beautiful young mother and 
how people were always stopping to admire 
them whenever they passed by. About the 
young school boy and his devoted mother 
who attended every play, every game, every 
function he was a part of. About the brilliant 
science student and the mother who adored 
him. About the West Point applicant and 
patient mother who had to tell him every day 
there was no news and in the same breath tell 
him how sure she was the acceptance letter 
would come tomorrow. 

But it never did. That summer now 
seemed so long ago. Almost like a vague 
dream. They both waited but no letter came. 
He worked at one of the shoestores on 
Broughton Street and every day she would 
ride into town on the #14 Abercorn to bring 
him his lunch and to spend a few minutes 
with him. Every evening he would return 
home to the news that there was no letter as 
yet and then they would cheer each other up 
and go into supper. 

This went on all that summer until the 
day after Labor Day when he came home for 
supper and in the middle of the meal 
announced to her and the old man (who was 
barely listening she was sure) that he had 
joined the army. She felt as though she was 
paralyzed as she sat listening to him. She felt 
rather than heard him say that it was obvious 
that West Point did not consider him ready as 
yet but he was not going to let that stop him. 
He had decided to go on active duty, get a 
commission from Officer Candidate School 
and apply to West Point from that direction. 
He'd been thinking about it for a long time 
and he knew he could do it. He'd gone to a 
recruiter the week before and had returned 
that very day to sign the papers. He would be 
leaving on the bus the following Sunday for 
Fort Polk, Louisiana, for basic and advanced 
infantry training. 



She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. 
She couldn't even swallow. She just sat there 
and watched as the old man stood up and 
extended his hand to their son. Then Bobby 
rose and embraced his father. She could have 
shot the foolish old good-for-nothing. Her 
son was leaving her and the old man couldn't 
or wouldn't do anything about it. And in the 
end there was nothing for her to do either 
except stand tearfully by and watch the big, 
dirty Trailways bus disappear down the old 
Augusta Road. 

The old woman got off the #14 at 
Abercorn and Broughton, her coat and scarf 
her only protection against the sharp wind 
blowing down Abercorn Street from the river. 
With her old shoulder bag on one arm and an 
oversized shopping bag on the other, she 
waited for the light to change and began to 
trudge head down into the wind up Abercorn 
to Bay Street. 

So many empty storefronts these days. 
She could remember the hustle and bustle of 
so many shoppers and businessmen and 
secretaries and clerks in days gone by. She 
passed Jimmy's Barber Shop where Bobby 
had gotten his first haircut and then so many 
more. One every two weeks for almost twenty 
years. Bay and Abercorn where the family 
had watched the St. Patrick's Day parade 
grow into the drunken orgies they were today. 
Garrett Cleaners, where Bobby's navy blue 
First Holy Communion suit had been so 
carefully tailored, cleaned and neatly pressed. 
Across Bay Street at Price and into Emmett 
Park. Up the still new walkway to the large 
marble slab of the monument to the dead of 
the Vietnam War. And there in the polished 
surface she could see both her old wrinkled 
face and the clearly etched letters: 

ROBERT E. ANDERSON m. 
She smiled to see that she had aged so much 
and that he had not changed at all in all these 



57 



years. She reached into the basket and pulled 
out the large bouquet of papier-mach£ flowers 
and saw that the bright colors would stand 
out quite well against the gray drabness of 
Emmett Park in the middle of winter. 

The rain was still falling but not as 
hard as before and the wind was still blowing 
but not as miserably as before. The old woman 
saw the rain and wind working on the small 
pool around the monument. No flag today 
because of the bad weather. 

And then, as was her custom, she fished 
out an old, badly-creased plastic pouch from 
her bag, opened it and took out two yellowed 
pieces of paper. She unfolded them and 
silently read both. The first was a telegram 
from the army informing her of Bobby's death 
in a helicopter explosion in the South China 
Sea. Missing and presumed dead. The other 
was a letter from the Commandant of the 
United States Military Academy at West Point 
which stated that Robert E. Anderson, III, had 
been accepted and which through some 
strange and forever unexplainable set of 
circumstances had been lost only to arrive in 
the daily mail minutes after that once in a 
lifetime telegram announcing his death and 
six months to the day of his dinner-time 
announcement. 

She read them both slowly and then 
refolded them and placed them back in their 



protective plastic cover. Then she put the 
cover into the shoulder bag and the shoulder 
bag into the shopping basket. And for the 
first time that morning she spoke out loud as 
she turned to go: 

"Maybe I'll stop at Gottlieb's for some 
fresh bread and doughnuts." 

Then out of the park and across Bay to 
Abercorn and down to the bus stop on 
Broughton Street. She liked the thought of 
going to Gottlieb's later on. She liked coming 
downtown. She liked going back home. She 
liked to do the things they had done together. 
Once a thoughtless friend had said to the old 
man within her hearing that it was such a 
shame that the boy's body could not have 
been found, that at least there could have 
been a burial, a ceremony, a gravesite to 
remember him by. How silly, the old woman 
thought. She had this whole town to 
remember him by. She even looked forward 
to riding on the bus no matter how dreadful 
the weather. The last time she had seen her 
baby boy he had been waving to her from the 
window of a bus. 

Now she was returning home to the 
old man and the memories. It was true there 
wasn't much conversation to be had there. 
But it was better than being all alone. 



58 




Savannah Lady 
Rhonda Wingate 



59 



c 



a 
1 
1 
1 
o 

P 
e 




s 

t 

a 
f 

f 



Editors: Christina Van Dyke & Dianne Daniels 
Faculty Advisor: Dr James M Smuh. Jr. 



Calliope is published annually in the spring by and for the students ol Armstrong State Col- 
Editors give student work first priority but accept submissions by faculty and staff. 
Calliope reflects the talents and interests of the student body of Armstrong State College, 
and consideration is given to work done in all disciplines on campus. The faculty advisor tor 
the magazine selects the Lillian Spencer Award winners for Best Poem and Best Prove piece. 
Rachel Green of the Pin e Arts Department selected this war's Best Artwork winner. 



Lillian Spencer Awards: 

Best Prose piece: "Blushing Gray," Emily Heverin 

Best I\»ein: "Souls in A.M.," Wes Daniel 

Best An work: Pint it led, Jacquelynn B. Nessmith 



Students produce Calliope on a Macintosh desktop publishing system. Submissions are accepted 
through winter quarter and should be placed in the collection Pox in Armstrong's Writing Center or 

mailed to the following address: 

( Calliope 

Victor Annex, -5 
Armstrong State College 
1 1935 Abercom Street 
Savannah, Georgia J1419-1997 



( lover Art: untitled, solai i:at ion print, Robert Morris. 



Spec lal 1 hanks: 

Linda |ensen,Tommy Harper, Dean .Adams, Dr. Frank Butler, Dr. Robert Strozier, Dr. Carol 
Andrews, Dr. Richard Nordqmst, Aaliyah Snyder, Plant Operations, Student Activities, and the 
Student ( !< \\ eminent Asso< iation. 

Printed by Atlantic Printing on recycled paper. 



Poetry 



The Wild Geese, Jim Buttimer 5 

Fear of Flying, Michelle ( Collins 6 

Ensenada Fishermen, Robert Ashby 7 

Cat Print Body Walk, Ruth Siedenburg 10 

A Rose Is Still Simply a Rose, Michelle Collins 11 

Making It Last, David Floyd 1 1 

The Boundaries of Awareness, Qarry W. McKee 11 12 

Musing, Christi Manly 1 3 

Souls in A.M., Wes Daniel 13 

untitled, Qarry W. McKee 11 14 

Early Morning Phone Call, Dane ( Weamer 21 

Blue Willow, KatyPaceByrd 22 

The Bed is Made, Susan Parker 23 

Hardwood Floor, Vance Hanson 23 

Grandfather Oak, Jim Buttimer 25 

30 Common Occurrences in America, Jessie Jones 26 

Looking Up, Vance Hanson 28 

A Child Wins, TiffanieL. C. Rogers 28 

Cold War, Craig Kozlowski 29 

Lunch Time, Dane Creamer 35 

William Tells Time, Ann- R . Hartley 45 

Survival of the Fittest, Amy R . Hartley 45 

Somedays Are Missing, Shannon Varley 45 

The Recluse, Brant Freeman 46 

The Competition, Christopher J . Soucy 47 

Clouds Gray Clouds, Craig Kozlowski 47 

The Devil Smiled at Me, Christopher J . Soucy 48 

Black, Joy Moore 49 

Candle, Anousith Sriratanakoul 49 

1920 Fortune Ave., Charles L. Jonas 50 

The Fox Puppy, Joey H . McKenzJe 51 

Autumn, Vance Hanson 52 



C 



o 



n 
t 



n 
t 



Prose 

Blushing Gray, Emily Heverin 9 

The Old Verities and Truths: Hope 

in the Heart of Darkness, Susan Parker 15 



Through the Looking Glass: 

A Brief Reflection, Christina Van Dyke 27 

Menthol Love, Lee Nettles 31 

What You're Wearing Now, Emily Heverin .... 38 



Artwork 

Gateway, Dianne Daniels 4 

untitled, Stephen Leavins 7 

Rank Oysters, B.J. English 8 

Woman &Water, 

Dana Danielson 10 

untitled, Andrew H. Lentini ..12 

Bereft, Dana Danielson 14 

untitled, Kristi Whittal 17 

untitled, Holly Veal 19 



untitled, B.J. English 20 

untitled, Cindy Wallace 22 

untitled, Qregg Qillou 24 

untitled, Darcy Bergman 26 

untitled, Cindy Wallace 29 

Portrait of John, 

Dana Danielson 30 

untitled, Vemita Axson 34 

untitled, Cindy Wallace 36 



untitled, Joan Lehon 37 

Jodie Pitts, Robert Morris 42 

untitled, Joan Lehon 44 

Tower of London, 

Dianne Daniels 46 

untitled, Vicki Watts 48 

untitled, Sbatcn Kelshaw 50 

untitled, 

Jaciuelyrin B. Nessmith ...52 




Qateway 

i oloi pbotogropb 



The Wild Geese 

We often heard them before the first light 

And then we could see them, barely discern them 

in arrow flight. 
They would pass overhead in a raucous clamor 
With voices like great creaking hinges, 
And then they were gone, before the first light, 
And our hearts would follow the echoes of their passing. 
Did they define their flight, or did it define them? 
And what were our lives of time and money 

compared to theirs? 
They fought the winds, the numbing distance, the long reach 

of hunters' guns, 
Yet I found no grief in their lusty cries, 
But only a deep longing for a sense of arrival 
At a treasured place that fills them like a truth. 

All life is struggle, 

And I for one would not deny theirs, certain as 1 am 

That they have enlarged the soul of life 

With their mythic flight of life's journey. 

They leave us standing with tools in hand, 

Our winter breath above our heads 

While theirs trails quickly behind them 

Before being blown to nothing by the wind. 

And the questions they leave us, are the questions 

of our own existence: 

Where do we come from, 

And where do we go? 



- Jim Bummer 



C 

a 



Fear of Flying 



Engines are fueled getting ready to go. 
NK feel must m.iy planted firmly below. 
I'm waiting tor take-off, holding my breath. 
1 wave and sigh. 1 watch the plane leaving. 

It's your tir-t flight and it'- something I know — 
New wings can ^arrv you to lands with more. 

With take-oft 1 roach tor the air and more. 
I should not be afraid to let you go 

But -co there is something I tear I know — 

The Earth look- different when looking below. 

With altitude your -en-e- -tart leaving. 

It'- hard from heaven to gather your breath. 

A- it I could turn you around with my breath 
I cry to you there exists SO much more! 
Things to do that we can't if you're leaving! 
Your damn career! I don't want you to go! 
Though distance brings a blurry sight below 
I must try to hold on to us I know. 

The horizon's no limit now 1 know, 

Rut altitude is stealing my last breath. 

Every cloud that you pass j^ets pushed below 

1 )arkening my will to live anymore. 

I hold on tight though I'm letting you go. 

You can test your win^s — I won't he leaving. 

Onee 1 flew lujjh with you, now you're leaving 
Me to hover over things 1 don't know 
How to get control of and still you £o. 
Elevation drops, now I'm out of breath, 

And onee I hit the ground I know there'- more, 

As I stand close to you from here below. 

Perhaps one day your dreams will fly helow 

The clouds to take my heart before leaving 

Again. But for now you feel you need more. 

"■Mill deep inside I hope you'll always know, 

When pres-ure from the climbing takes your breath, 

In me you'll always find a plat i- to go. 

Below I fear tin- flight, hut this I know 

You're leaving. I must try and catch m\ breath. 

1 love you, so more I must give you . . . ( lo! 

- Mu/v/lc ( hlUns 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 
Stephen Leavins 



Ensenada Fishermen 

Eternal golden path, 
stretching into the green sea, 
Horizonward, beyond, beyond. 

Dotted upon the living ocean are men, 
boats of brown wood rotted and worm- 
ridden, grey canvas sails dipping, 
heaving to-fro over the swells. 
The day is long yet ever closer 
night, Mother Superior, 
the beaches await pearly, white, 
and the time for stowing and mending 
close, now, close. 
Nestled quiet in the brown hills 
their town, their father's land, 
lies waiting their return, 
closer, ever closer, the 
smell o( pintos refried well, 
iron skillets over hearths roasting 
tortillas, and the drink of the men, 
the life of the men, their women await the 
coming, together at the beach, 
hushed voices saying, it i^ close now, 
close. 

- Robert Ashby 



( 



N 



RANK C MAI t IS 




Rank Oysters 

gelatin silver print 

BJ. English 



Blushing Gray 

On Lord. His handprints still warm on her back, she padded down the 

PLUSHLY CARPETED HALLWAY. NEXT TO THE ICE MACHINE AND A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR Wl I'l 
THE ELEVATORS. SHE PRESSED THE DOWNWARD ARROW, AND LOOKED AT HERSELF, DEVILISHLY. 
HER FACE, DEVOID OF THE USUAL RED LIPSTICK, LOOKED PALL AND SMUDGED BY THE (.RAND 
THUMB OF WHIRLWIND PASSION. HER HAIR WAS O.K. — FASHIONABLY MUSSED, AND HER JEWELRY 
(SHE FELT FOR THE OUTLINE OF ROTH EARRINGS TO RE SURE) HAD BEEN PERFUNCTORILY 



shoved into her pocket last night as she was 
getting dressed. Although she never could step 
away from her bathroom mirror until all detect- 
able flaws were artfully disguised, now she 
thought herself beautiful. Ravishing, almost. She 
had a sparkle, a sheen to her — that glow she 
hadn't in such a long time (could it have been a 
whole year?) — along with a strange grin she 
couldn't suppress. DING! The car had arrived. 
She flashed her eyebrows at herself, glanced in 
the direction of Room 701 (Why?), and stepped 
into the green marbled elevator. 

Before she could finish organizing her 
thoughts and replay last night from the begin- 
ning, the car stopped. She looked up at the floor 
indicator — lobby already? ^^^^^_^^^^^_ 
But it was blinking "5" and 
the doors were slowly 
opening. Jesus, she 
thought, who the hell else 
is up at 7:00 on a Sunday 
morning? Could he have 
run down the stairs — her 
thought was interrupted by ^^^^^~ ^^^"^^ 
two teenage boys, wearing new jeans and bright 
shirts who laughed their way onto the car, 
dragging huge vinyl bags after them. They 
looked quickly at her from under their eyelids, 
and the taller one continued with the story that 
apparently was making them laugh so hard 
before the elevator came. "So anyway, the 
bartender's like, can I see some I.D.? So 1 go, 
look buddy, my father OWNS this place. . . ." 
She rolled her eyes and clutched her jacket 
closer to her stomach as she tuned them out and 
concentrated on the piped-in music. Boys, she 
thought, mere children. What had he played for 
her last night on his tape player? It was Brazilian, 
or something. . . . Just then the car slowed to a 



Your minds would 
explode if you knew, 
dearies, she thought. 

They really would. 



halt again — "3" this time. The silent spread of 
the doors showed two women staring directly 
into the car with no expression on their colorless 
faces. They stepped on board, revealing their 
names and the church they belonged to, thanks 
to stick-on nametags peeling away from the 
cardigan sweaters buttoned only at the top. The 
boys took a break from their riveting story, and 
there was a moment of silence as both Maureen 
and Mary Margaret ignored them and turned to 
glower at her, the tramp in the corner with the 
bloodshot eyes. Your minds would explode if you 
knew, dearies, she thought. They really would. 

Finally, the car softly landed and the 
number "1" was flashing. While the women o{ 
__^^^___^^^_ the cloth tried to remember 
in which banquet room 
Brother Thomas was hang- 
ing streamers and pouring 
orange juice, and the two 
boys grappled with their 
luggage, she politely 
squeezed out of the box and 
began to stride. Definitely a 
stride — past the smiling and the knowing desk 
clerks, past the huge potted plants, through the 
piped-in strings, and onto the magic grocery- 
store mat that took the place of gentlemen and 
opened doors for her. 

As she stepped into the gray mist ot the 
groggy Sunday morning even the usually crazy 
traffic hadn't caught up with, she noticed the fog 
had dissipated a little since she had taken one 
last look at the fantastic view this morning. She 
turned her head up toward the millions ot win- 
dows looking down at her, hoping to see him 
standing on the balcony, sadly blowing kisse^ 
and waving goodbye, but then she realized, up 
there, it was probably not quite clear vet. 

-Erwh J leverin 




Woman and Water 

gelatin silver print 

I \n\a Danielson 



Cat Print Body Walk 

My dreams lick you, 

walk lightly on the blanket up your Ic^s 

to your shoulders, leave small dented 

footprints. Wrapped around themselves, 
lying on youi chest, they knead you, 
revving their low engines. 



Ruth Siedenburg 



A Rose Is Still Simply a Rose 

Do not give me a mere flower today. 

It's hotter not to send bouquets to me 

For they take the place of things you should say, 

With mute wishes for forced tranquility. 

Red roses prove your undying passion, 

A daisy to beget me needed cheer— 

A small array of vvildflowers mentions 

You've sown your oats and wish to come hack here. 

But flowers wilt and once more you won't come. 

You seem to keep forgetting roses bite 

And bright arrays of ineptness are dumb. 

I'm growing tired of this lover's plight. 

Take all of this madness to heart, my dear. 

A Rose is still simply a rose, I fear. 

- Michelle Collins 



Making It Last 



God what CHURCH think of church 

Sitting in the hack trying not to fall asleep 

All the other kids trying not to be too loud 

And Cheryl who always wore those stockings with the 

Damn Damn SCHOOL sittin' in those desks that were too small 

Smelling chalk dust sitting behind Lisa playing with her 

Hair No watching Ms. Dixon write on the board her sweater 

Pulling tight DAMN DAMN DAMN God DEATH think of death not 

Seeing not breathing not feellling just nothing or 

Paradise!! Shit 

' David Floyd 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 

Andrew / [. Lentini 



The Boundaries of Awareness 

I, sleeping, saw a great waterfall 
thai $hone N many colors 
of hi ue andRedand goLd 
Which drENched the HUGE 
Tree w.tH A NEW LIFE 
aNI) i wa: the Wateri 

al 

1 And the Tree 
and the herO And theblrds and 1 wuZ every 

tl ling 

FRE1 

atonce inThE ValK\ 

,for thai is c-Xac tlywhere 

i u.i: and Wanted tobe 
until thai shrill logi< 
tnitk my mind wholly hack 
to its learned plat i 



Qarry W. McK'.r // 



Musing 



There are charcoal nights, 

when my heart 

Takes a brooding turn 

and unwept tears 

lay taint upon my every deed, 

That I wonder 

where is my cheery hearth 

and pots wanting to be stirred. 7 

Where is my love 

to make me smile and cry 

and to weep and laugh 

on account of me? 

Where are my babies 

golden and brown, 

eyes full of wonder, 

begging me for tales? 

Near or Far? 

Close or Not at all? 

I drink in the lonely night. 

It pours freely from my pen. 



- Christi Manh 



Souls in A.M. 

The dial moves slowly back and forth, 

caught between my thumb and middle finger, 

running over fast Spanish monologue . . . 

dialogue, 

further into Jesus "dammin 1 yo' soul fa' leavin' da' grace uh 

"God bless A . . ." 

". . . merica's most widely used sleeping pill" 

". . . AT ZERO HOUR 

working the throat of static, 

manic squeals, 

and low whirls of sound 

caught between the air o{ red tower lights a 

and my small bedroom 

burning with noise. 

Wes Daniel 



* 



I 

I 

I 



Smu.1I, 

silvery, 

slick and smooth to the touch; 

.1 missionary o( 

death 

once thai 

hard, 
cold, 
hammer 

strikes my end. 

In a rage resulting 
in roaring fire 
(for only .1 spl- 
it second), 
I pierce 

the air 

like nothing else, 

determined upon 

my target 

X. 

c )n< e 

there, 

I've 

made 

their 

miserable 

little 

lives 

flash 

before 
their 

very eyes; and then they feel me, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha 




Bereft 

gelatin silver prtru 

Dana Danielson 



-QarryW. McKee 11 



The Old Verities and Truths: 

Hope in the Heart of Darkness 

In his 1950 Nobel Prize acceptance speech, 
William Faulkner asserts that "a [writer's] voice 
need not merely be the record of man; it can be 
one of the props, the pillars to help him endure 
and prevail." In order to accomplish this "duty" 
as Faulkner saw it, a writer is obliged to remind 
humanity of "the old verities and truths of the 
heart . . . love and honor and pity and pride and 
compassion and sacrifice," through works which 
illustrate the struggle of "the human heart in 
conflict with itself. Until he does so ... he will 
write as though he stood among and watched the 
end of man" (294-295). Joseph Conrad's gloomy 
account of imperialism and the search for inner 
virtue and moral truth in Heart of Darkness seem 
not to satisfy Faulkner's criteria for good litera- 
ture, superficially; yet upon 
closer examination, one 
finds that regardless of his 
reputed pessimism, Conrad 
suggests that humanity is 
not necessarily doomed. 
Through Marlow's experi- 
ence, the use of inverse 
symbolism, and the ambigu- 
ities of textual meaning, 
Conrad attempts to jar readers out of their 
complacency to examine their own values and 
motives. Journeying into the human "heart of 
darkness," one finds that the capacity for good- 
ness is counterbalanced by the capacity for evil, 
but acknowledging that this "darkness" of human 
nature exists is our only hope of controlling it. 

Marlow's experience itself would seem to 
suggest that Conrad believes there is little hope 
left for humanity; whereas Faulkner asserts that 
Conrad's obligation is to remind us of our nobler 
qualities, Heart of Darkness appears to do just the 
opposite, although it does satisfy the requirement 
of illustrating the human heart in conflict with 
itself. Marlow begins the tale idealistically 
enough, relating how when he "was a little chap, 
[he] had a passion for maps," that he would 
"stare at them for hours [losing himself] in the 
glories of exploration" (22). Yet, when he goes 
to sign on for the voyage to Africa, his idealistic 



... the capacity for goodness is 

counterbalanced by the capacity 

for evil, but acknowledging that 

this "darkness" of human nature 

exists is our only hope of 

controlling it. 



ignorance comes into conflict with imagery thai 
suggests impending doom. He describes the city 
as "a white sepulcher ... a dead silence ... as 
arid as a desert." This archetypal symbolism of 
hell is further reinforced in the employer's office: 
"a skinny finger beckoned me. . . the great man 
himself. . . his grip on the handle of ever so 
many millions" (24). The "deal table" could be 
understood figuratively to be a table where one 
signs a contract with the devil, and one of the 
two women who "knitted black wool feverishly" 
is witch-like, with a "cat reposed on her lap," 
and "a wart on one cheek" (25). Frederick Karl 
interprets these two women as "the Fates who 
send gladiators out to die in the jungle for the 
glory of the empire" (132). Amidst all this 

hellish imagery, however, 
there is an element of 
hope, for Karl goes on to 
say that "it is significant 
that Marlow encounters 
only two Fates (they could 
be Clotho and Lachesis, 
who in classical mythol- 
ogy spin and measure the 
thread of life), for the 
presence of a third (Atropos, who cuts the 
thread) would indicate his imminent death" 
(132). 

This sense of foreboding does not escape 
Marlow: "I began to feel slightly uneasy . . . 
there was something ominous in the atmosphere. 
It was just as though I had been let into some 
conspiracy — I don't know — something not quite 
right" (25). Conrad clearly establishes through 
Marlow's perception of the situation that he is a 
moral man, yet the vagueness of the impression 
suggests that Marlow isn't willing to confront his 
trepidation directly. Rather than put a finger on 
exactly what troubles him about it, he escapes: "I 
was glad to get out" (25). He "accepts the status 
quo for whatever reason" (Karl 126), something 
we have all done at one time or another. 

This initial scene sets up the reader for 
the twists that Conrad imposes on conventional 
symbols later in the story; the imagery previously 



i iated with hell is now described in terms of 
lightness, which is our traJiiuni.il imagery of 
heaven, virtue and moral purity. To this, 

nrad adds thai what is described in terms of 
light, or white, is corrupt, artificial, even diaboli- 
cal; and that which is described in terms of 
darkness is actually truth. The effect of this 
"symbol switching" forces readers to adjust 
stereotypes, in<\ we eventually begin to realize 
that Conrad wants us to see our labels as nothing 
more than our illusions of reality. We use Labels 
to classify, rationalize and comprehend what we 
See and experience, and we are now in the 

uncomfortable position of having to re-think 

them. For example, it would be easy to think of 
the jungle in the traditional terms associated 
with it — the darkness — as the symbol of evil; yet 

Conrad makes it very clear that it represents evil 
as an element of truth. Marlow observes that 
the wilderness "had taken [Kurtz], loved him, 
embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his 
flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the 
inconceivable ceremonies of some devilish 
initiation" (64). The wilderness represents i 
truth about the evil in Kurt:, and, as Conrad 
establishes throughout the novel, in all people. 
To succumb to this darkness is to suffer Kurtz's 
fate; to avoid acknowledging it renders us power- 
less to control it, and we become accomplices to 
it, as does Marlow. 

Another use o( this symbol-tampering 
occurs when Marlow encounters other white 
men on his journey, such as the chief accoun- 
tant: "1 s.iw a high starched collar, white cuffs, ,1 
light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers" (32). This 
pristinery-garbed vision contrasts sharply with 
the "barbarians": "black shapes crouched, lay, sat 
between the trees, leaning against tlie trunks, 
i tinging to the earth ... in all the attitudes o( 
pain, abandonment and despair" 01 ). It is 

immaterial that Marlow seems impressed with 

the accountant, foi we can't tell if Marlow is 
des< ribing him sarcastically or not; but ( lonrad 
doed not intend to impriss the reader with the 
"achievement* 1 of imposing oneself forcibly on 
the natives: "When one has got to make correct 
entries [read "impose one's societal ideals"], one 

COmeS to hale those s.iva^es hate them to 
death," the accountant postulates ()]). Karl 

sums up Marlow's moral judgement accurately 



when he says that "he believes that imperialism 
must justify itself with good deeds," yet, when 
Marlow tries to apply this to the accountant, 
Conrad illustrates "the absurd contradictions . . . 
between modern beliefs and modern practice" 
(126). 

Perhaps no one character presents the rift 
between belief and practice more vividly than 
Kurt:. The reader is aware by this tune that a 
meeting between Kurt: and Marlow will be the 
climax of the story. We have seen the worst 
that human beings have to offer in the atrocities 
committed by Imperialists against the natives in 
the name of wealth and power, but Kurt: is the 
embodiment of the devil himself. What Conrad 
wants to remind us of, however, is that Kurt: 
started out as idealistically as Marlow did. While 
reading Kurtz's report, Marlow is enthralled with 
the "unbounded power of eloquence — of words — 
of burning noble words" that tell how the white 
man "[could] exert a power for good practically 
unbounded" (65). In this report tor the Interna- 
tional Society for the Suppression of Savage 
i. ustoms, Marlow has finally found the rational' 
ization that his morality has been seeking. His 
illusions are abruptly shattered, however, as he 
reads Kurtz's last words, "the exposition o( a 
method" to bring about this suppression, "lumi- 
nous and terrifying like a flash of lightning in a 
serene sky: Exterminate all the brutes!" (66). 
As revelation after revelation of Kurt:'s malevo- 
lence beats away at Marlow's ignorant idealism, 
he arrives at two conclusions: first, that outside 
the strictures of society, Kurt: allows the human 
c apacity for evil to consume him; second and 
perhaps, more important, he realizes that he 
could just as easily have done the same thing. 
What redeems Kurt: in Marlow's eyes are his last 
words, "The horror! The horror!" (85). Whether 
these words are Kurtz's sincere apology for suc- 
cumbing to the darkness ot corruption, or the 
angry cries ot a man thwarted by death from 
completely establishing his power and domi- 
nance, almost doesn't matter — Marlow needs 
these words to be "an expression ot some sort of 

belief that he acknowledges his wrongs and has 
repented, because Marlow is incapable of com- 
prehending the darkness that Kurt: embraced so 
willingly. Michael Jones notes that "if Marlow is 
going to continue to live as a moral being, he 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 

KristiWhittal 



must, once again, shelter himself from the wil- 
derness within the limitations of order and 
coherence made possible by his conscious mind. 
It is a kind of willful self-delusion that permits 
him to escape Kurtz's fate" (78). Marlow cannot 
directly face that he, as a human being, pos- 
sesses his own "heart of darkness," that such a 
thing exists in all people, so he rationalizes 
Kurtz's cry as a "moral victory paid for by innu- 
merable defeats, by abominable terrors, but 
abominable satisfactions" — simply, a soul in 
torment that repents in the end. And yet, 
Marlow returns to society angry with the artifice 
and corruption that he sees: "their bearing, 
which was simply the bearing of commonplace 
individuals going about their business in the 
assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me 
like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face 
of danger it is unable to comprehend" (87). 
Jones muses that "all things human are lies . . . 
[yet] without lies, human life is impossible; the 
order which is essential to it could not exist. 



Hence Marlow, by the end of the tale, must live 
with the knowledge that he too has to be a liar 
in order to survive," and this explains Marlow's 
apathy (78). In order to secure his own exist- 
ence, he must be the unwilling accomplice to 
the things in society he hates most; the alterna- 
tive, as he sees it, is to follow Kurtz into the 
abyss. 

What other choice does Marlow have, 
then, but to lie to the Intended? C. B. Cox 
writes that "it is appropriate that Marlow should 
lie to her . . . for her life is based on hypocrisy, 
like the European civilization in which she has 
been nurtured. Her devotion has transformed 
the reality of Kurtz into a false ideal, and this 
self-deception is a psychological necessity for 
her" (58). Marlow knows that it isn't his place 
to strip away her ideals, and has already ac- 
knowledged that it is beyond his ability to make 
her aware of what he now knows of human 
nature. "No, it is impossible. We live as we 
dream, alone" (82). Whatever revelations she 



has in the future about Kurt: must be through 
her own experience, and Marlow himself lias 
already exonerated Kurt: tor his crimes in his 
own mind. _______^^^^ 

I\k-s ilu-> mean, 
then, that we arc ulti- 
mately powerless to re< 
nize and control human 
fallibility? Karl puts more 
faith in Conrad than that: 
"just because Marlow tails 
to sec Kurt: as a devil . . . — 

Joes not mean that his author did" (131). He 
further states that Conrad believed "men deceive 
themselves to the very end: about the evil in 
others and themselves" (31). Conrad uses our 
traditional symbols to show us that what we 
stereotypically label as "good" may in fact be 
evil, that people must face the darkness o{ 



Turning one's back on that 

darkness doesn't make it 
disappear; such a response only 

proves to be a silent 
acquiescence for it to continue. 



reality. Turning one's back on th.it darkness 
doesn't make it disappear; such a response only 
proves to be .1 silent acquiescence tor it to 
__^ __ continue. Not examining 
truth tor ourselves makes us 
accomplices, willingly or 
not, but Conrad cannot 
lead us to this conclusion: 
"The temptation for the 
artist, as Conrad sees it, 
would be to offer his readers 
— an organizing metaphor by 
which they could comprehend both his values 
and his aesthetic forms, a heart for his awareness 
of darkness" (50). We as the readers are going 
to have to negotiate the darkness on our own, 
for it is ultimately our responsihlity — not 
Conrad's — to save ourselves. This may be what 
Conrad had in mind all along. 



- Susan Parker 



Works Cited 

Conrad, Joseph. Heart of Darkness. Ed. Ross C. Murfin. A Case Study in Contemporary Criticism. 

New York: St. Martin's, 1989. 
Cox, C.B. "A Choice Of Nightmares." Joseph Conrad: The Modern Imagination. London: J. M. Dent & 

Sons, Ltd., 1974.45-59. 
Faulkner, William. "The Stockholm Address." The Craft of Prose. Ed. Robert H. Woodward and H. 

Wendell Smith. Belmont: Wadsworth Publishing Company, Inc., 1977. 294, 295 
Jones, Michael P. "Heart of Darkness: Beyond the Heroic." Conrad's Heroism: A Paradise Lost. Ann 

Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1985. 65-80. 
Karl, Frederick R. "Introduction to the Danse Macabre: Conrad's Heart of Darkness." Conrad, 123- 

136. 




untitled 
black line graphic 
Holly Veal 



C 




unfit led 
gelatin silver print 

B.J. Engfcsfc 



Early Morning Phone Call 



Four a.m. and submerged in sleep, 
Close by clock tapping softly, 
Dreaming lightly or not at all, 
His eyes rapidly twitch; 
His calico slumbers at the 

foot 
0{ the bed. 

Phone rings, 

And he enters into a dream of 

childhood 
Bells. 

Mrs. Fletcher of second grade 
Stands ominously by the room's entrance 
As the bell reports the beginning of class. 
Eyes open-close-open-close 

close. 

Second ring draws him into an 
Obscure reality. 
Dream slowly melts away 

As a cumbrous arm reaches for the snooze alarm- 
Then retracts. 

Again, his head becomes heavy in the pillows, 
And like a ship full with sleeping passengers 
Sinks quietly beneath the surface of the ocean. 
His mind descends into a dark abyss, 
Down 

Down. 

Bell tolls again like a compelling itch 
Demanding action. 
Slumbery eyes open to a dim room. 
The phone is ringing 

The phone is ringing 

THE PHONE IS RINGING— 



At four a.m. 

With a sudden merging of fear and worry, 

His eyes open wide. 

He wishes the unwanted intrusion had not come. 

Wishes, the way one wishes a problem 

Would just fix itself, 

just go away, 
Just stop ringing — no, 
The phone has to be answered. 
Again the ring disperses the stillness 
As the roused man forms a macabre image of his 
Unwell parents. 
Heart attack? Seizure? 
Or car crash, tearing off arms and legs, 
Head crushed like a used tissue? 
If I don't answer 

no I must answer 
Did someone die I don't want to know 
I hate who's doing this to me I must answer 
Has someone died they're old they're old. 

Fifth ring. 

Maybe it's work — could be work; 

Come in they may say. 

It may be only that. 

A trembling hand reaches for the 

phone. 

Fingers slowly wrap around the receiver. 

And after one last moment of stalling, 

He raises the receiver 

And reluctantly guides it to his ear — 



Hello? 



- Dane Creamer 



te 



Blue Willow 

Standing at the kitchen sink 
(Hate all other chores hut this) 
Buzzing man and children gone — 
Warming in the windowed sun. 

Gently washing, water laving, 
Gleaming plates of hlue and white, 
Weeping leaves my eye delighting, 
( lima shining in the light. 




hji titled 
gelatin silver print 

Cindy Wallace 



Will the fishers catch their fishes? 
Will the boatman reach the shore? 
Will the lovehirds escape her father? 
Questions frozen evermore. 

As the patterns rim the story, 
So my life is framed in roles. 
( !rack or shatter's only answer — 
Smash the plate to break the mold. 



( annot break my lovely dishes 
(Man- to leave my sun-soaked sink) 
Mind shall take- me out the window- 
Iconoclastic thoughts will wing. 



- Kaly Pace H\rd 



The Bed is Made 

We scale 

laundry 
dishes 

no where warehouse piece work 
homework 

trying trying trying 

to keep our 

litterhox lives 

fresh clean 

upkeep upkeep upkeep 

pulling the weeds 

take down the trash 

finish the list 

So we can 

find each other amidst 

the rubble and grimy 

frustrated tears . . . Our lives 

are getting in the way. 

- Susan Parker 



Hardwood Floor 

Neat little rows of glossy oak 

soaking up the cold 

from beneath 

and holding it 

in reserved anticipation 

of bare awakening feet. 

The procession begins 

from bed 

to bath 

to kitchen. 

All the while 

each step 

reminding us 

of what outside awaits. 



- Vance Hanson 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 

Qregg Quillou 



Grandfather Oak 

The old oak stands in a field of loss 

and measures all by what used to be. 

Around him lie the fallen trunks and upturned roots 

of those who had competed for water, soil and light. 

He now stands alone, 

and all this leaves him with the strange discomfort 

of a battle won. 
And who would have thought 
that the very struggle was all that mattered? 
For in the struggle he defined himself 
as life-giver, life-enhancer, true heart of oak. 

I see him now cast in solitude, 

the shoulders hunching ever nearer. 

The legs falter, the hands quiver, 

"What's left of me," he half-joked. 

His last years were spent in yearning for the path of return. 

His journey was nearly complete, 

and the life that began as a clenched fist, 

was now the open palm for all to see. 

The ghost of struggle is all that remains, 

but that does not stir him. 

Only the verdant chant of Spring can rouse him now, 

for it is then that the old life and the new life are one. 

Beneath these limbs with their weight of years, 

we sought our comfort, and he has become the rooted thought 

of strength and ease, 

shade and rest. 

- )im Buttimer 



3 



30 Common Occurrences in 
America 



dark 
stroll 
door 
purse 

L\ 
lock 

in 
turn 

OUl 

knob 

push 

in 

shut 

on 

step 

m.isk 

glim 

rape 

open 

man 

step 

nil 

pull 

Later. 

out? 

slam 

tock 

III Is 

tock 

tii I- 




untitled 

gelatin silver prim 
l\n^ Bergman 



ie /'mo 



Through the Looking Glass: A Brief Reflection 

Looking into her own eyes, Francine saw a lifetime ol solitude. Stepping away, 
walking into the reality of her own minimal existence, the feeling slightly dimin- 
ished . . . just enough for her to realize the image was not her own. Regaining the 
knowledge of "then" puts "now" into a new perspective. Accosted by memories oi a 
child, it is impossihle to mentally progress . . . 

a little child in a red velvet dress and little black patent leather shoes . . . The little 
girl runs through Francine's memory. When their eyes finally meet, the browns melt 
into tears o{ horror. 

It happens whenever she self reflects. 

The browns of her eyes never let deceit slip far from view. If the glass weren't 
so tantalizing she would be able to skip forward . . . but the image is so clear, the 
brown so vivid, the memory so alive that she can feel the velvet as it covered her 
face and suffocated her cries . . . 

Rationalizing only succeeds in molesting her intelligence. She stares into the 
brownness and watches mental movies that pause and rewind on cue. Played over 
and over, the scenes are familiar to her mind's eye. Closing her eyes does not erase 
the intensity of emotion . . . pressing the mute button does not drown out the 
deafening terror. The volume of the crying gets louder and LOUDER as she desper- 
ately tries to edit the memories. The fast forwarding finds her diving into the brown 
glass . . . 

the image shatters. 

Seven years' bad luck seems more promising than a lifetime of shame and denial. 
She stepped through the looking glass and couldn't come back. 

- Christina Win Dyke 



Looking Up 

Blue and brown 

an J some green 
J. irk and only a little oi each 
Each one 
Each ..II 
Eac li .ip.irt 
Blue brown and green 

J. irk green 
Is ii brown that falls in between? 
blue and green 

wing and wings 

dark green wings 

and blue to follow 

Brown and green 
Wh.it do they mean? 
our eyes. 

- Vance' Hanson 



A Child Wins 

A hoy looks into a mirror. 
He is searching for the man 

he someday hopes to be. 

A man searches his reflection. 
1 le looks for shadows 

of the child he never was. 

Staring out o( the silver-hacked ^lass 
is a dream . . . 

,1 dream of a child 

who ki ame a man 
before the man could he a child 
. . . hut no reflection. 

I In- man i luld lay forever silent 
tor the boy had searched too hard 

tor the man he would never become. 







Tiffanie / ( ' Rogers 



Cold War 

Snowballs, 
having been packed 
tight by mittened hands, 
are fired 
like artillery, 
by seasoned 
playground Pattons 
across Atlantic Avenue 
to 
rain 

down 
on the enemy, unaware 
the game's begun. 



- Craig Kozlowski 





tsm^ 



untitled 

gelatin silver print 

Cindy Wallace 



B 




Portrait of John 

gelatin silver prim 

/ Imd I )anielscm 



d 



Menthol Love 



I told her that if I could 

do anything in the world, 

I would write and draw. 

And I was 

swimming drunk. 



As I put down this pen to this paper, my 
mind is a gumbo of kisses and tears and the 
things in between. Now, is this piece ol i a] ei 
going to serve as the silent priest on the other 

side of the confessional booth or the drunk 
soldier on the hunk above me? Becaun it noth- 
ing else translates, one has got to believe that if 
one sings one has sung. So to you, my priest and 
hunkmate, here is a tune I heard. 

The car didn't need to be locked. 1 
stopped to think about the fact because we were 
in a bigger city than I was used to. 

"The car's alright. 7 " I asked Jeff as he was 
going in the front door of a two story residential 
house. 

"Yeh, and we might want to bring in the 
Toke-Master." 

You see, this was Jeff 's friend Tom's 
house. We went to the stairs through the down- 
stairs foyer and hall. It was a solidly built colo- 
nial style house that had tall shade trees in the 
yard around it and was only five or ten minutes 
away from a commercial district with imported 
rug shops, Japanese restaurants, and Rolls Royce 
dealerships. Among the furnishings in the down- 
stairs of that house there was an elaborately 
framed fish eye mirror that reflected the whole 
foyer and living room distorted in its ten-inch- 
wide surface. 

I shut up, though. It's an unwritten rule 
that one should look around and take in the 
situation and get a hold on the situation before 
asking a question about something that might be 
obvious. 

We went down the upstairs hall and 
came to a room with a vaulted ceiling and a t.v. 
There was a sofa, two chairs, and a table, and 
you couldn't see much of the floor or table top 
for the socks and pizza boxes and the plate of 
marijuana. Tom came in after a minute and sat 
down on the sofa beside Jeff, sighed, and said, 
"Sorry 'bout the mess guys; it's been crazy." 

Jeff said, "That's cool," and we smoked 
and I found out that Jeff and Tom planned on 
going over to a college town an hour away, 
where I had lived for four years, to see a hand 
that I did not want to see. The band already had 
more listeners than they deserved, and I wasn't 
going to be one even if it really didn't matter 



< 






what I did and even it thai was where the major' 
itv oi tt girls were going to be that night, 

we -.it in the den with the stale pizza slices 

sitting in their boxes on the floor And sweet 
smoke filling the air. I was sitting on a chair 

across from Jefl and Tom and could hear them 
talking about Tom's girlfriend and everything, 

and I realized that Tom's mother who they 
didn't mention but had been sick with cancer 

loing prcttY badly or had died. And, also, 1 
decided I'd split away from them when they 
went to the club where the oxer-hyped band was 
playing at and go to some bars. 

On the way to that college town we 
listened to music by a hand from the area that 
s.ihl: 01 the Statesboro hlues (I looked over in 
the corner and Grandma she be had them too). 
And 1 smoked cigarettes in the back and acci- 
dentally burnt a hole into one of the leather 
seats of Tom's tour-wheel- drive vehicle. Four- 
wheel-drive vehicles, yeh, I'm trying to evolve 
into a situation where 1 can walk everywhere, 
arid everybody else seems to be evolving towards 
picking up the groceries in a Sherman tank. 

That college town was cold and inviting. 
The kids were out for the holidays, and all the 
hype-seekers were in one club. My friends joined 
the worship of the popular — and 1 went looking 
tor a place to worship the intoxicating. On the 

1 ran into a mutual friend of Jeff and myself 
named Pete. His girl was fine and sweet and they 
were heading to a bar that I had never been in. 
It was small and was decorated with ugly posters 
and neon beer signs on every wall. Pete, his girl, 
and I s,it ,it the bar and split up a pitcher of beer 
into three Lilass mugs. The beer went down good, 
and I started to ignore the detail- and enjoy the 
finer points of the sc ene. 

you're waiting tables and going back 

to st hool for no reason.'" 

"Yeh," I answered Pete. "I'm pretty sure 
this thing isn't any big competition." 

"You're ri^ht, Les. 1 mean I feel like a 
fuck up halt the time because I'm not going to 
- d« t"i or a lawyer. 1 mean 1 still have m\ 
fingers crossed " 

"Yeh, I mean, if someone's Lift directions 
io this thing, I don't know of it. And I don't 
know that I'd want to be let m on them anyway. 
I he first rule would probably be to screw oxer 



the person you would least like to screw over." 
"Yeh man, 1 kind of envy your position." 

Damn, 1 thought, you can't agree: it means too 
much. "Watch out," I said. "I'm pretty sure I'm 
on the highway to hell." 

The bar ran along the right side of the 
place and went down about halt the length. The 
back half had two coin-operated pool tables that 
were end to end with cocktail tables around 
them. Down the left side there was a corridor 
that was partitioned oft from the pool tables by a 
low wall made of cheap wood. Around the near 
pool table there was a iiroup of five people 
shooting and drinking and smoking. One o( the 
girls 1 had worked with on the university news- 
paper. We both sold advertising space, driving 
around from business to business. She smiled and 
laughed in the newspaper office when we would 
turn in our sales at the deadline. I would moan 
and whine. I wasn't a good salesman, but 1 made 
some good friends from that bunch of clients 
who didn't buy any space, and I enjoyed working 
downtown where the office was. That office was 
just on the other side of the block from the bar 
we were now in. 

She was smiling and laughing like she 
had when 1 worked with her. I glanced over m\ 
shoulder at her some more, then started staring. 
1 ler and another girl were with three guys that 
seemed a laughing, backslapping bunch. My 
former co-worker, Laura was her name, and her 
friend got up from their table with their beers 
and walked by me to the door. 1 smiled at her 
and raised my beer as she passed. I saw her close 
up tor the first time since selling ids: light brown 
hair, light eyebrows, clear skin, a grin, and eyes 
that would bat this way and that. I looked back 
down at my mug of beer, then glanced over iu\ 
shoulder to see her short plump frame bat this 
wax and that out the door. 

I talked to Pete and his girl and drank 
with them. While we talked Laura and her friend 
came back in, poured some beer into their mugs 
from the pitcher they had left on their table and 
went out again. And 1 stole another smile from 
her on the way out. They came back in after 
|usi about ten minutes for another refill, and that 
time I turned toward them on mv barstool as 

they passed me to leave. 

"Where are x'all going? Are ya'll making 



out in your car out there?" 

"No," Laura said, "Do you remember me, 

Les?" 

"Oh yes," I replied. "And I'm sorry to 
butt into your personal life." 

"Les," Laura said exhaling and hatting her 
eyes up at the ceiling. "That alley-way next 
door sounds great. You know the one down by 
the ice cream shop." 

"Yeh, but what are you listening to?" 

"Ourselves," she said. And I had no idea 
she was a singer. They invited me out into the 
cold to listen to them harmonize in that down- 
town breeze-way. They sounded good filling that 
alley full of honey voice, Laura up high and her 
friend a little lower. They sang "There are stars 
in the southern skies/ Southward as you go." 
Real pretty. When they had their fill of singing 
we walked back to the pub and she told me she 
had quit the paper six 
months after I had. I told 
her it was great to see her 
and got my place back at 
the bar. 

After a while Pete 
and his girlfriend got up and 
left, but I barely logged the 

fact into my brain. I was 

drinking, smoking, and 

glancing over at Laura every once in a while. 
She was wearing a Navy pea coat and her cheeks 
were rosy. 

I had noticed other people besides Laura's 
group as the bar got more crowded. They were 
sitting at other tables and going in and out of 
the bathroom doors at the far end of the place. I 
wasn't paying too much attention to these 
activities, but then a guy started yelling in the 
men's room. I could make out something like 
"you fucking faggot," and could hear the whim- 
pering of the person he was beating up and who 
wasn't putting up much of a fight. Somebody 
opened the bathroom door, and since the bar 
was long and narrow, almost everybody in the 



And she smiled and 

laughed, but she always 

smiled and laughed. 



This recognition of tlu- situation, ever^ 

customer's head turned toward the scene, was .1 
patch of stopped tune. Then I was m the bath- 
room pulling the red-haired guy back with tin 
arms wrapped around his upper arms and chest. 
He yelled, "He's a fucking faggot," and other 
things, and 1 was yelling "Calm the tuck down," 
"You don't beat people up," and "You're beating 
the shit out of him." 

I le wanted to keep beating the other <_'u\ 
up, and when the poundee made it out ol the 
bathroom, the pounder turned around to pound 
me. 

"That motherfucker came on to me. No 
one comes on to me." 

He was two inches taller than me and his 
red hair was cropped short. I walked fast over to 
the corridor and the redhead ended up on the 
other side o{ that low partition. He was standing 

among the cocktail tables 
cocked forward at the 
waist towards me, but that 
partition made me feel 
safe enough to say slow 
and loud, "You can't just 
beat the shit out of 
people." I was kind of side 
stepping down the corri- 
dor away from the guy 
when Laura came up and explained to me that 
the redhead was a good guy who was home on 
vacation from some military hook-up and was 
kind of edgy. 

The adrenalin buzz trom that situation 
had my knee jerking up and down and I reckon 1 
finished my beer and sucked down a cigarette 
before I left to find another bar. 

It was cold and clear out and the trees 
that line the downtown streets had all lost their 
leaves. I walked around the corner and went 
through a pair of brass doors that led to a wide 
staircase that went up to a second floor pub. It 
was a long and narrow place also, and the stairs 
left you at the back end of it. The bar ran down 
the right side wall and there were tables and 



bar could see this tall lean red-haired guy squat- 
ting down to punch a smaller guy who was laying chairs at the opposite end by big windows that 
on the floor with his arms crossed in front of his looked down over the street. The walls of the 
head. He was crying and squirming, and there bar were painted dark red and the ceiling was 
was fresh blood on his face that splattered on the dark green. I sat at the bar and started a cigarette 
white tile floor with each punch. and a beer. 



Before 1 had finished my beer, 1 saw 
Laura, her singing partner, the red-haired 
homophobe, and two other guys come to the top 
of the stairs. They went down to the street end 
ol the bar, but Laura saw me and came over. We 
talked through some beer and then she said that 
she wouldn't lei me say that 1 didn't know what 
1 wanted to do. "It you could do anything in the 
world, what would you doT she asked smiling, 
"You've got to want to do something." I told her 
that it 1 could do anything in the world, 1 would 
write and draw. And I was swimming drunk. 1 
wrote on her cocktail napkin something like: 

Laura, don't leave me a scar 
Don't scrape my elbows or my knees 
Don't kill my poodle, but butter me bread 
Snuj-dAuj bo'boof, ya*goosh. 

And she smiled and laughed, but she always 
smiled and laughed. 

Then 1 was leaving with her and her 
friends under the trees down the street, and 1 



might have been skipping; 1 don't recall. The 
quintet and 1 squeezed into one ol the guy's tour 
wheel drive vehicles, \nd 1 didn't think o{ 
Sherman tanks because 1 had my arms around a 

Navy pea coat full ol love. 

"Do you want some sausage?" the redhead 
asked me as he sizzled up the pork at the stove 
hack at the singing dux's apartment. Laura 

showed me the press kit for her hand and said 

they played anything that was fun to sing and 
that their name was the Barflies. 

1 had no cigarettes, but her menthols 
tasted fine out on the carpeted stairwell ol the 
apartment building. She stopped laughing and 
smiling on those narrow stairs, and she said, 
"You want to kiss me." 1 did, and, si), 1 did. We 
were on those stairs and then we were inside on 
the floor ol the unlit living room. She stood up 
in the dark and 1 pulled her hack down for a few 
more kisses. Then, she broke away from me, her 
bedroom door shut, and 1 was frustrated tor the 
few seconds it took me to start snoring. 

- Lee Nettles 




«ri 



untitled 

gelatin silver print 

Vemita Axson 



Lunch Time 

That's it — open that can of 

Whatever it is 

YOU 

Bought this time. 

Twin Pet? That stuff with the plain white label? 

Look at 'im. Ain't he cute in his boxer shorts, 

And his Minnie Mouse tee shirt at three in the afternoon. 

I'd like to see him 

eat that shit 
One day. 

What's takin' so long? 
You need a new can opener, or what? 
Dog food! 

It all stinks. But drat, I gotta eat somethin'. 
Why not a piece of the pepperoni pizza you just 
Wolfed down? 

Wait! Where is he goin' now 

He just set the half opened can down 

And now where is he goin'? 

I'll follow him. 

Ouch! Step on my tail one time will ya? 

Oh God, he's goin' into the bathroom. 

Good. He didn't shut the door. 

This means he only has to pee . . . 

Behold! The flood gates are open . . . 

Geez, man! Damn! Let me back away some. 

Sometimes you humans are disgusting. 

That's right. Zip up, 

And let's get back to that can of 

slop 
That YOU wouldn't eat for a thousand dollars. 

All right, he has it open. 

Yeah, yeah — get the damn spoon from the dishrack. 

What do you mean am I hungry? 

Hell yeah, I'm hungry! 

Just dump that can of hog testicles into my bowl, 

goddammit. 
Well look at that — 

ain't that just appetizin'. 
It looks just like the 

cuisine 
I retched up that day I got too hot 
Waitin' in the car. 

Remember that, Mister Responsibility? 

I just love that smackin' sound C 

This garbage makes when it a 

plops 
Into my bowl. 
And I'm supposed to like this stuff. 

Man, one day me and you gotta talk. p 

e 
- Dane Creamer 









X 



' 



I 




untitled 
gelatin silver print 

Cindy Wallace 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 
Joan Lehon 



o 



U) 

c 

CO 




O 



GJ 



«a 



She could still sec that picture. Grandma had it oil the mantel 
with eight others, all out ot date from Staggering tune periods. Some 
were teenaged, some toddlers, hut they were all their best pictures. 
The most famous ones. Probably because those were the very ones Gram and 

l\>p Ju's,.- to display of their precious nine and not replace. All judgements will 
he final. 

Anyway, Phoebe's favorite was the one ot her older brother, Simon. He 

and her younger brother, Jacob, were named from the Bible, while her name 
was either from Salinger or Greek mythology. She wasn't sure, but being that 
she admired both sources, it didn't matter. Vague pride seemed to be a gene 
every one of her immediate relatives brandished on their individual helixes, 
along with Strong noses and thick hair. A penchant tor heated debates about 
politics or religion. Staying up until the wee hours playing pinochle or gin 
rummy in Grandma's smoke-filled living room with handfuls ol pennies at each 
place. Staring out ol windows. Losing touch with reality. She couldn't think of 
any more. 

What she saw was the cheap gold-plated frame in the center of them 
all. The oldest grandchild. Her beautiful brother, age thirteen. Black, coarse 
curls, tamed by the "good brush" — a hairbrush everyone in the household 
shared, from her father's thinning blonde wisps to her mother's lush auburn 
waves, and all follicles in between. It's still around, she thought. 

He wore this "western-style" denim shirt with varying blue handkerchief 
patterns above the breast pockets and below the long, pointed collar. He was 
all snapped up and contained. The shirt used to evoke fashion-righteous snick- 
ers from Phoebe, but a solemn feeling, like a priest's raised hand, would silence 
her. 

She supposed it was the expression on his face. 

Most eighth-grade kids were so self-conscious and awkward that they 
o\ ercompensated from terror in front of the camera. You know that grin. Or 
grimace. If it wasn't the braces, it was the freshly-sprouted spattering o( black- 
heads on their chin, or the new haircut they thought would make them look 
devastating. But the barber didn't quite understand "a natural flip into my eyes 
then a sudden twist to the left," the layers of Clearasil applied methodically 
every seven minutes the previous night did nothing but singe off the good skin 
cells, and Mom and Pad refused to pay for those new-fangled clear braces. Pm 
ready for my close-up now, Mr. de Mille. But not Simon. He had porcelain skin 
and perfectly straight teeth, but that wasn't it, she thought. It was more than 
that. 

He gazed into the lens with the ease ot ;i supermodel. His dark Italian 
i looked tired, but not without an alertness the long lashes Phoebe coveted 
could not conceal. His mouth, so pink and full, also conveyed a wisdom she 
thought startling to see in a boy so young. He wasn't smiling, but expression 
was surely there. She thought of her first crush, C ]. J. Brucklier, the class clown 
who had an adorable, impish grin but froze sternly in front of a camera. It irked 
hei that all she had of him now was a black-and-white image ol a kid she 
didn't recognize above an almost indecipherable scrawl, "To Phoebe. The 
greatest guy in the world is signing this yearbook and you better never forget it. 
< IB." 

No, Simon wasn't posing. She knew that look, and she imagined the 
kids in his diss did, too. It's ;i look given when you expect to be the 



first chosen for basketball teams, but you're 
second. Yeah, I guess he is a better dribbler. It's a 
look you give when you're convinced this test 
was aced and you finally have an A to bring 
home to the refrigerator of good grades museum, 
but you get the usual, a low B. A R-minus. 

Minus. 

And you hold this look on the bus ride 
home because you know your brother and sister 
have A's. Nothing but A's. It's knowing the past 
and seeing the future in one moment. Minus plus 
is nothing. Holding steady. 

Phoebe knew the look on a different 
level, though. Her family communicated through 
looks. Her mother was notorious at the school 
where she taught for having the ability to reduce 
the toughest seventh-grader to tears with one of 
her quick glares. The meek were protected. Same 
thing at home. They were taught what and what 
not to talk about through Mom's looks. And that 
blue-eyed stranger, stumbling through the door 
after the midnight shift, chuckling to himself as 
he tripped on the darkened staircase, was the 
number one taboo subject. Shhhhhhh. Hee hee. 
Be quiet. Creep. 

Simon and Phoebe were quite close — 
going to the big school together while Mom 
drove Jake to kindergarten. There were seven 
years between Simon and his sister, and she and 
Jake only had one year separating their births, 
but somehow the two oldest were closest. They 
had an underlying bond that no one else could 
connect with. Their mother adored them all, yet 
seemed to cater to the "baby." Phoebe's only-girl 
status had its privileges, such as the biggest 
Easter basket; and Simon, being the first-born 
son, could have had an almost heroic stature in 
some families. Not theirs. 

Well, he was a sort of hero in everyone's 
eyes except the one who would never accept him 
fully. Father. He cut him down at every avail- 
able opportunity. He's not even my son, he'd 
say. Simon was born five years before Mom and 
Dad met and quickly married. Her first husband, 
an antsy musician, left when she found she was 
pregnant. Of course, Simon was aware of the 
situation, but Phoebe and Jake were not in- 
formed until a young cousin's remark prompted 
tears and questions. Phoebe often wondered, if it 
weren't for that infamous night, when whispering 



together undet a quilt, hei cousin [ennifei 
blurted out,"You and Simon don'l even have the 
same father," it hei mothei evei would have told 
them. Alter all, Phoebe resembled Simon mu< h 
more than the fair-haired Jacob. No matter, she 
thought, he's my big brother whatever they 

He was the one who taught her how to 
throw a perfect spiral with the orange Nerf in 
Delaware Park. I le was the one who got in 
trouble every Christmas Eve for playing Frank 
Sinatra at midnight when he should have been 
sleeping, while Phoebe hid motionless under bis 
blankets clutching a flashlight and trying not to 
disturb the checkers game they would continue 
as soon as their Mother's annual admonishing 
ceased. He was the one who provided her with a 
steady supply of stinging comebacks in case any 
little punks tried to get the best of her on the 
playground. And it was he who would huddle 
with her, at the top of the staircase, silent, while 
Mom and Dad cursed at each other, she through 
sobs and he through an evil sneering chortle. 
Simon and Phoebe were always on the same 
team. 

And at the top of the stairs, after they 
had heard too much — "rotten kids," "I only have 
two," " I did you a goddamn favor" — when the 
screen door squeaked and slammed, and that 
sickening silence slowly enveloped the house, 
even seeping into Jake's room where he was 
playing and humming to himself, Simon would 
put his arm around his terrified sister who was 
convinced Daddy wasn't coming back this time, 
and he'd look at her. With that look. 

Shame, relief, hope, responsibility, pity, 
and love, all in one look. That was her solace. 
She wasn't alone. Maybe he was more alone 
than she felt. Probably so, but they were in this 
together. She knew that. 

This was an almost weekly ritual, fol- 
lowed by days of silence yet dutiful "Hi Daddy" 
when addressed. The routine was followed as the 
weeks passed and tension grew. Eventually 
Phoebe could hear Father yelling at Simon. 

"Do you really think you'll get into a 
good college with grades like these"' 

"I just started high school." 

"Answer me!" 

"I don't know." 

"What do you mean you don't know.' W^ 



you think I enjoy pending money on thai 
school to see grades like this.'" 

"1 don't know." 

"Jesus Christ! Look at me when I'm 
talking to you. Jesus, Simon. 'I don't know.' 
What the hell goes on in your head? Do you act 
this dumb in school. 1 No wonder you get 
goddamn grades like these! You might as well 
drop out oi school now! Do you re. illy think 
you'll ever get into college with grades like 
these.' Look at me!" 

And so it went. Eventually Mother would 
stop grading papers or putting clothes in the 
washing machine in the basement and relieve 
her sun by sending him upstairs and then attack' 
ing her husband. 

"Do you know what you're doing to him? 
To this family. '" 

"Lemme alone." 

And Simon would trudge upstairs to 
where Phoebe would be in his room, playing his 
records and pretending to be ^^^^^_^^^^^ 
engrossed in her homework. 

"Get out, Phoebe." 

"Come on. I'm just 
sitting here. You want me to 
go on the floor? You want 
the desk. 7 Here, I'll move my 
hooks and you can sit here 
and I'll just — " 

"Phoebe, get out!" 

So she'd slam her history book closed, 
and shove her notebook and workbooks and 
pencils into her purple bookbag, and, tears 
burning her eyes, stomp out oi his room, down 
the hallway, past Jacob's closed door, past the 
staircase leading to her seething mother saying, 
"You sonuvabitch. He's fifteen years old, for 
Christ's sake. Fifteen years old! What do you 
want from him.'" past all that, into her delicate 
room, with the door that stuck and made a 
fantastic noise when slammed, like an axe into a 
tree, where she would slap the light switch on 
and sling her bookbag on the light blue carpet 
and herself on the pink chenille bedspread, 
when- she would slowly dissolve into gulps and 
sobs and gasps and finally, mercifully, sleep. 

And so it went. A scene, a stomp, sleep, 
then silence. She began spending more time in 
her room, concentrating on homework and 



She took bites between glares at 
this stranger sitting next to her 

at her dinner table. This 

stranger who made her brother 

smile and ask his mother if he 

could help wash the dishes. 



books rather than whatever might be going on in 
the kitchen — whoever was yelling at whom. 
Sometimes, it she happened to be in Simon's 
room and he ordered her out, Dad would conic 
out of nowhere to defend her and start some 
thing with him. Resentment was palpable, no 
matter how much she tried to dispel it. 

"Simon? You want to go outside and toss 
the ball?" she'd say after one such argument. 
"No. Go away. I'm busy." 
"C'mon, Simon. It's still light out. 1 
wanna show you this new way I have o( throw- 
ing it, I can almost hit the street li — " 

"Phoebe, I said I'm busy. Are you deaf? 
Leave me ALONE!" 

So she left him alone. But he didn't stay 
alone. One day he brought home a girl to eat 
dinner with them. A petite, polite blonde girl 
who giggled a lot and had perfectly manicured 
long fingernails. Her name was Beth, and Simon 
met her at the store where they both worked. 
^_^_____^^^_ She sat at the table be- 
tween Simon and Phoebe, 
with her napkin on her 
lap and nervously 
complimented Mom's 
cooking, asked for the 
recipe, and asked Jacob 
and Phoebe about 
school — the same one she 
attended "a lot of years ago." And while she and 
Jacob laughed about old Miss Mazzarini and how 
melodramatic she got whenever she had a cold, 
("Oben your boogs to pade wud-sebbeddy-sigs") 
and Mom beamed at Simon as she passed him 
the salad, Phoebe slumped over her plate and ate 
her spaghetti slowly, answering Beth's inquiries 
with monosyllabic grunts. She took bites be- 
tween glares at this stranger sitting next to her at 
her dinner table. This stranger who made her 
brother smile and ask his mother if he could 
help wash the dishes. Nonplussed, Phoebe could 
only arrive at one conclusion. This was not 
good. 

Her premise proved true as she saw more 
of Beth and less of Simon. Jealousy mounted, 
and de-spue burning-faced attempts to conceal it 
as she overheard him cooing on the phone 
behind his closed door, it began to present itself. 
She would mock Beth's prudish, frilly demeanor, 



how she told Simon who later told Phoebe that 
"your little sister is such a doll. I'd love to take 
her shopping or something." She would cackle 
about the time they attempted to teach her to 
play football and Beth, oh so typically, threw 
like a girl. She would ask Simon, well aware of 
the date he had, to spend time with her, then 
whine when he turned her down. "You AL- 
WAYS go out with BEEEEETTTHHH. Can't 
you stay home for a change?" And he'd silence 
her with his look. The look he used to comfort 
her with was now of new meaning. Why the hell 
would I want to stay here?, it seemed to say, but 
Phoebe also sensed that he wanted her to come 
with him. Can't you like her? Why can't you like 
her? She sensed these pleas as he left her in a 
cloud oi Aqua Velva, left to wait for whomever 
came home first, Simon or Father. Sometimes, if 
Simon came home first, she'd hear his music go 
on and his door close, and she knew he was safe. 
But if Dad came home first, and Mom was 
asleep, he'd come into ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Phoebe's room, where her 
light was showing under rpi 

, , „,,, , 1 hey were now 

the door. He d knock 7 

lightly, pop open the in separate 

door, and walk in, "Hey, 
sweetheart." 

"Hi, Daddy." One 
assessing look usually ^^~^^~ 



corners* 



sleep n< »w. 

"( )-o-okay, baby. Sweel dreams, horn 
And he'd dost' the door. Bui she could -till heai 
when Simon came home and the fighting would 
begin, he was oul too late, or didn'l < lean the 
garage, or something. It w.is always something. 
They were now m separate corners. 
( )ne Friday, she attac ked oul i >i desj 
tion. Wanting to save him these late-nighl 
confrontations, wanting him with her when 
Father came home, to console her after one look 
into the icy, unfocused blue eyes that seemed to 
laugh at her. She couldn't ignore reality b\ 
herself. Collective pain was a comfort. So she 
stopped him on his way out of the bathroom, his 
face pink and shiny from a fresh shave and told 
him flatly, "Simon, you can do better than that. 
Than her. She's not good enough for you. She's 
a phony and she won't make you happy 1 mean 
she can't make you happy because she's a fake 
and all she cares about is hairspray and pink and 

not breaking her long stupid 

fingernails and — " her voice 
cracking and almost hysteri- 
cal by this time, she looked 
at his face, with his eyes 
glowing with what seemed to 
her a mixture of shock and 
loathing, and she burst into 
~~ tears. Oh Simon, I don't 



confirmed her suspicion of that stale, pungent 
odor that wafted in after him and seemed to 
settle in front of her, and what it was that 
seemed to oil his joints and ease his smile. 
"Wh-wh-where's your brother?" 
"He's in bed," she'd answer stoically and 
look down at her book hoping he'd leave. 

"Not him. I mean ... I mean where's 
you-y-y-your other brother, heehee, otherbrother 
otherbrother? Hee hee. Whatsamatter, sweet- 
heart? Otherbrother hee hee!" He'd be laughing 
and trying to make her laugh along with him, 
she supposed, but she wanted to cry. Or throw 
up. Or run. 

"I don't know. He's out with Beth." 
"Whatsamatter, sweetheart? No. I mean 
where's Simon?," methodically speaking, enunci- 
ating each syllable as in an attempt to hide his 
current state. Establish. 

"Daddy, I told you he's out. I'm going to 



mean to hurt you, she thought. I just need you. 
Don't you need me anymore? And she received 
her reply as he shoved her out of his way, and 
stalked down the hallway, and as he got to his 
room and turned to close the door, he glowered 
at the sobbing girl, looked straight into her eyes, 
streaming rivulets of embarrassment and fear 
over her burning cheeks, and pointedly, through 
clenched teeth, seethed, "You little bitch." 

Eventually, news came to the dinner 
table that Dad had received a promotion and the 
family would be moving four states away. Phoebe 
was now in ninth grade and would continue high 
school in the new state, but Simon had an 
option. After all, he was now in college, with a 
steady job, and still, a steady girlfriend, Beth. He 
could go or stay. Despite Phoebe's meager at- 
tempts to convince him of new and wonderful 
opportunities awaiting him, one month after the 
announcement, he put a security deposit down 



on a small apartment on Summii Avenue, near 
the park. 

Moving Day arrived, and Phoebe sat on 

the front stoop watching as Simon's friends tried 
to tu his bed into the back o\ Mark Ruffs truck, 
laughing and cursing, while stony-faced movers 
hoisted boxes ot their old toys and books and 
clothes on top of the kitchen table, over which 
they would never gulp mouthfuls o( Frooi Loops 
together again. As the furniture was removed, .ill 
ot their besi hide-and-seek places were erased. 
Gone. She shuddered as she heard her mother 
tell the men. " Leave that box. It's staying." And 
when the commotion was over, the home was a 
naked vault ot matted 
carpet .\n^\ memories, it 
was time to leave. 
Simon hugged them all, 
blinking hack tears and 
saying he'd see them 
real soon, and closed 
the car door atter his 
mother, staring into his 
sister's tearful gaze from 
the hack scat. She 

watched him as the car 

pulled away, getting 

smaller and smaller, 

shove his hands into 

his pockets .itter a quick 

wave, and run to his 

friend's waiting truck. Phoebe began to sob, and 

at each red light and stop si^n, put her hand on 

the door handle and tried to gauge how tar away 

they were now and if she could run to him 

safely, before dark. Then they were on the ramp 

to the Thruway, speeding up, and she had no 

idea where exactly they were. Simon was left 

behind. B> e hoice. I le was fr< 

The new home was eerily silent. Mom 
cried every night for weeks over Simon's ab- 
sence, and Dad's drinking increased. Phoebe and 
fake harshl) *. ritic ized the smaller school system 
and foreign small-town mentality of their new 
peers. And while lake- delved into his school- 
work and became a model student and eager 

tutor to the "slower kids," Phoebe isolated herself 
more than ewer. She ignored attempts of local 
kids to befriend her, and was extremely irritable 

at home, barely speaking to anyone and iv ad\ lor 




an argument at the slightest provocation, sueh as 
"What are you doing.*" from her mother down- 
stairs. She did only the required work in school, 
preventing both failure arid praise. Her new 
bedroom door had a lock on it, which she used 
whenever she wasn't at school, or eating dinner. 

Simon was the only family member 
excluded from her new misery. Her heart jumped 
when the phone ran^ and she heard her mother 
sing,"Hi, honey!" And he seemed to listen 
sympathetically as she would gripe about the new 
school or lack of "things to olo here," but he 
soon began to castigate her for the behavior 
Mom had told him about. "Phoebe, don't make 

this any harder on 
everyone than it 
already is," he'd sa\ 
disdainfully. She was 
hurt b\ this authorita- 
tive attitude arid 
instantly deflec ted it. 
She didn't need chid- 
ing, she needed him to 
hold her as she cried 

over the absence ot 

ambition 111 her new- 
life here. .And she 
didn't care about 
Beth's new car, she 
wanted to tell him that 
she needed him here 
because the new staircase was smaller -you 
could hear the fucking ice cubes in his ulass. She 
wanted to hear that he was coming to rescue 
her, take her away from the gloomy new house 
and bring her home. Yet all she heard was "Jesus, 
don't you think it's time you grew up.'" 

1 le newer came to visit without Beth, ariel 
Phoebe went out of her wax to exacerbate the 
uncas\ feeling of a stranger in the house'. She'd 
coolly request that Simon leave Beth at home 
while they go tor a drive. She'd audibly si^h 
when waiting tor Beth to finish dressing before 
they were all to go out together. She met all ot 
Simon's glares, hoping his countenance would 
soon melt into his familiar look when he realized 
his sister was m pain. Crying inside. Grieving. 
1 ler wish was newer granted though, and she 
remembered the icy politeness in his voice as he- 
said goodbye to her at the airport. The wedge 



Jodi Pitts 

gelatin silver print 

Robert Morris 



was being driven deeper and deeper. Alter three 
like visits over the span of a year, he stopped 
calling for her. If she answered the phone, he'd 
curtly ask how school was. Fine, how was work? 
Good, listen I can't talk long is Mom there.' 
Fine. Good. Sad. 

Now, years later, it was worse. She was in 
college in yet another state, with surprisingly 
good grades and a small circle of friends. Now 
they went for months without speaking at all. 
Last Christmas Eve, when Phoebe had no money 
for a plane ticket and Mom had the flu anyway, 
Simon announced his engagement to Beth at 
Grandma's house. Cousin Jennifer told her how 
nervous he was and that the riny was beautiful. 
Phoebe called her brother to congratulate him, 
sickened that her absence didn't prolong such an 
event, and chilled as she heard her own voice, 
saying "Congratulations, Simon" in the same 
tone as when he bought ^^^^^_^_^_^_ 
the old used Pontiac from 
his friend two years ago. 
Flat. Devoid o( feeling. 
She couldn't fathom how 
she should sound, though. 
Would exuberance shock 
him? Would it sound false? 
Some time and some place 
they had lost their own language. Their secret 
code. Maybe it was when they parted on that 
cold November afternoon and they couldn't read 
each other's glances anymore. When his sneak- 
ing into her room with a stack of comic books 
and an illegal plate of cookies could no longer be 
"I'm sorry." When her bugging him for his 
records or his kidnapping her dolls could not be 
"I love you." All they had to use now were 
words, an unnerving alternative. So they agreed, 
silently but mutually, that time had definitely 
stolen something they could never retrieve. They 
didn't even seem to know what it was, but it was 
gone. 

Last March, during Spring Break, there 
was a family reunion at their parents' house. 
After a big dinner and lengthy update on every 
aunt, uncle, and cousin, pillows and blankets 
were distributed and the house drifted into a 
quiet symphony of coughs, whispers, and snores. 
While Phoebe sat in bed, reading, Simon came 
into her room. 



bed 



"I le\ ," he said, sitl ing at tin- fi n >i i ij hei 



"What."' 
"Nothm' 



you've been d( un' 



Some time and some 

place they had lost their 

own language* Their 

secret code. 



just wanted to kin >u whai 
lately. 1 low's st hoi >l .'" 
"It's okay. 1 mean, this * me iter's better 
than the last one. I'm doing alright. How's 
work?" 

"Well my boss is an asshole, but the 
money's ^^k\, so tuck him. Did you see Beth's 
ring? 

"Yeah. It's gorgeous. Is it real?" she 
smirked. 

"Oh, you're cute. No, I won it. Ed 
McMahon bought it for me." They both 
laughed, then stopped. 
A lull. 

He got up and started looking at her 
tapes. "They any good?" 

_^^^^_^^^^_ But Phoebe didn't want 

to talk about music and 
work and school. She 
wanted to tell him how 
badly she wants Beth to like 
her. She wanted to say she's 
changed now. She wanted 
to throw her arms around 
his neck and cry because 
she wasn't there for his engagement party. She 
wanted to tell him she lost her virginity three 
months ago. She wanted to know if he was truly 
happy. She wanted to know if he still played 
Frank Sinatra every Christmas Eve at midnight. 
If he still wore that red knit hat to bed when it 
got cold. If he can forgive Dad, now that he goes 
to A. A. If she should. If he could ever forgive 
her for not letting him go, but forcing him out. 
She wanted to suggest a game of tackle 
football for tomorrow, but her sudden awareness 
of the body she now inhabited, a woman's body, 
betrayed the image she treasured of the way she 
used to run unabashedly, leaping on her brother's 
back, squealing with pure joy as he'd still try to 
run for the touchdown with an eleven-year-old 
clawing at his sweatshirt. 

She'd look ridiculous, she deemed. 
So, as her chest pounded and her mind 
raced with all of these thoughts, she suppressed 
them, closed the book she held, and yawned. 

"Yeah, they're pretty good. I saw them in 



C 



concert .1 few months ago. You can borrow ii it 
you want.* 1 

"Yeah, maybe 1 will." 

"Well, listen, Simon, I'm exhausted." 

"Yeah, me too. We still going out to 
lunch tomorrow .' Where do you wanna go?" 

"1 don'l ^are. Jake says there's a new 
place on Hertel he wants to try. It doesn't mat- 
ter. Will you gel the light, please.' 1 don't wanna 
mo\ 1 

He walked across the room and told her, 

"Yeah, one more thing — you better not use up 
all the hot water tomorrow like you did this 
morning." 

She smiled, and flung one ol her stuffed 
animals at him. She missed. 

He clicked the light ott and stood at the 
doorway, almost lingering, with Phoebe looking 



at the back-lit man in her doorway thinking 
pleasepleaseplease don't leave. Sa\ something 

serious and lot's talk pleaseplease. 

"I'll s t e you tomorrow, Phoebe," was all 
he said, though. Then he walked out and softly 
closed her door. 

She sighed, staring at the ceiling, think- 
ing about what had just happened. What was he 
doing? Was he hack.' No. Something wasn't 
right. She telt around under her bed tor the 
stutted pig she had named "Kitty." She found 
him, clutched him to her chest and tried to 
sleep. Well, we tried, Kitty, she thought. 

But it wasn't quite ri^ht. It was awk- 
ward — almost forced . . . 

Unnatural . . . 

Like a goddamn Picture Day smile. 

- EnuK J leverin 




untitled 

solarizflticm jntm 

Joan Lehon 



Survival of the Fittest 

I am a wall, 

And he grows on me like ivy. 

He clings to me 

hi the shadows that I cast; 

But his affection is too strong, 

It smothers me. 

And as I begin to crumble into ruin, 

Ruin caused by love, 

He continues to live 

And remain green 

Long after I am dust. 

And he will continue to grow 

Until he has found another wall 

To cling to and destroy. 

- Amy R. Hartley 



William Tells Time 

I shot glances like arrows 
Over his head at the apple 
Which was the clock; 
But my aim was too low, 
And I pierced his heart. 



- Amy R. Hartley 



Somedays Are Missing 

He holds my body 
in his right hand. 
I feel the pressure there 
and at first it burned, 
and got cold and now- 
just tingles like needles 
in my skin, a place 
that has fallen 
asleep and is just now 
waking up. 

- Shannon \ arley 



The Recluse 

Black veil 

c Covering her eyes 

in- knows win 
Bui no one will ask her 
Soft pale ^km 
i k>vered by death's clothes 
She's hiding from her mind 
Trying to escape its toll 
She cannot sing 
Her own voice would scare her 
She can't feel the wind blow 
Without feeling alone 
The people she thought would he there 
No longer are beside her 
Leaving her in pain 
With nothing to do but hide. 

- Brunt Freeman 



I 




Tower of London 

color photograph 

Dianrxe Daniels 



frEQEd 



Competition 



The night bled across the sky, 

Drowning the day in a pool of black, 

Stars mourn the day gone by, 

As darkness enjoys the spoils of its attack. 

The land soaks in midnight hue, 

Grey mingles in the shadows, 

And the moonlight casts shades of blue, 

While the victorious night silently glows. 

At dawn the battle is resumed, 

The dark losing to the powerful light, 

The night will be completely consumed, 

And darkness will wait for the next fight. 

- Christopher ] . Soucy 



Clouds Gray Clouds 

The gray heavy clouds, looming 

above my fields, are ready, 

after collecting the dew from 

far away forests, collecting 

the mist from far away 

towns, collecting the warm moist 

breath of my fellow 

men, and moving it over 

great imposing mountains tipped white with snow, 

moving it across wide life-drinking 

deserts, to shower down 

upon my parching farm 

and quench my fading crops 

ready for a gulp, 

before moving on to grow 

gray again. 

- Craig Kozhwski 



The Devil Smiled at Me 

The devil smiled at me, 
Holding ofll the horde ol demons, 
The devil smiled ai me. 

The angels wept tor me, 
Waiting tor the priest's sermons, 
The angels wept tor me. 

The stars sing to me, 

Tiny lights pointing the way, 

Tin- Mars sing to me. 

C Jod is angered with me, 
Waiting for Judgement Day, 
God is angered with me. 



Some people want to he me, 
Immortality coursing through my veins, 
Some people want to be me. 

Some people are afraid of me, 
M\ soul covered with blood stains, 

Some people are afraid of me. 

This world is tired i)( me, 
Tired ot my c ursed destiny, 
This world is tired of me. 

- ( Christopher J . Soucy 




untitled 

gelatin silver prim 

VickiWam 



Black 

Shadows crossing in the dark 

Shade my day, the light 

Darkness lurks behind the spark 

hidden 

Swiftly into darkness 

do not be afraid 

light a match if you must 

it will soon be dark again 

I dare you to run . . . 

Light a match 

Follow me 



Shadows crossing in the dark 

Shade my day, the light 

Darkness lurks behind the spark 

hidden 

Where's a match. ? 

Where's a spark? 

Start to hide in the dark 

Darkness lurks behind you 

Close your eyes 

and make believe 

Blow it out 

watch light leave 

Silence 

Darkness 

Nothing there 

So into nothing you sit and stare. 

-joy Moore 



Candle 

A burning candle barely illuminating the darkness, 

A wan, yellow glow oi hollow light. 

A single flame sits on top, 

gracefully floating atop its sinking throne, 

in a pool of liquid memories, 

A mirror for the flame to gaze at and into. 

Melted drops of hot wax trickle down the sides, 

each tracing its path as it freezes in time. 

All who look upon the candle 

will see how many drops have fallen. 

A candle which burns nightly 

will reach the bottom quickly, 

but one rarely lit has more life 

to live in its slowly falling height. 



- Anousith Sriratanakoul 



1920 Fortune Ave. 

Raking paint, 

Splintered rails, 
Rotting steps, 

Hingeless doors. 

Windows broken; 

Weeds abound — 
Leaking roof, 

Shingles missing. 

Quiet shadows 

look tor friends — 

Family's left, 
I lope is lost. 

Laughter rang 

Where spiders lurk. 
1 oys once filled 

Justy floors. 




3 



untitled 

oil pastel 
Shawn Kelshaw 



Love long gone — 
Memories linger. 

Life was rich — 

Death is stronger. 

Abandoned house 

once home to m.inv 
( 'nes alone — and sits — 
Remembering. 

- Charles L. Jonas 



The Fox Puppy 

patter my feet 

The of little 

can be heard 
behind my hiding [Mace 

and then I dart for the quick bite 

on the 

dangling 

fingers 

hanging 

over. 
With an 

OUCH! 
and a swipe 

I am t ng o d 

u i v n o 

m 1 e a v 

b r e 

r 

snapping at the hand 

teasing my snout. 
I escape to my den. 

Being slick, 

I sneak to my den's other side. 

Then on with the game i 

1 P 
as the hand grabs and f s m 

e. 

GNAW! 
BITE! SCRATCH! 

OUCH! 

Finally, 

fooling the hand, 



plaything's back 
my 
on 
hop 



while he's resting on the floor. 

I SNATCH a big chunk of ear and SHAKE! SHAKE! 

SHAKE! 



i 



I have won this game. 

P 

-Joey H. McKenzie 



Autumn 

The cold yellow flame ol the fall hickory, 

its triumph over time 

heralded by golden flags. 

The audience oi empty hands 

waves a brilliant goodbye, 

like so many 

drifting home from the party. 

To bed, to bed! 

- Vance I lanson 




untitled 

gelatin silver print 
Jacquelynn H. blessmith 











■iltt 




f [» 




I 


1